


the boyfriend challenge

by leafletter



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Author Akaashi Keiji, Bookstore Owners Suga and Akaashi, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Streamer Kozume Kenma, YouTuber Bokuto Koutarou, an entire chapter of surfing, semi eita is a mf’in rockstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafletter/pseuds/leafletter
Summary: Akaashi Keiji is a quaint bookstore owner by day, novelist by night. As he struggles with writer's block, can the spirited exercise vlogger Bokuto Koutarou provide some much-needed inspiration?
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou, Oikawa Tooru/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 101
Kudos: 169
Collections: My favorite haikyuu fics





	1. Poor Akaashi.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my second fic! I'm taking a chance and going to upload as I go. Hopefully I can keep this up as my work starts. 
> 
> I really loved the idea of Bokuto becoming a famous YouTuber. I also fell in love with the idea that the two pretty setters would open an equally pretty bookstore. Hence, this. 
> 
> If any of you have any ideas, suggestions, or ANYTHING, please comment! I'd love to make more hq!! friends :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Akaashi Keiji, a minimalist bookstore keeper who loves his plants and books. He and his housemate, Kenma, lead peaceful lives—that is, until their new neighbors Bokuto and Kuroo move in.

Undoubtedly, Akaashi’s pride and joy is his garden. His mini-sanctuary is an ensemble of green with speckles of white, which Akaashi has done purposely to give the effect of fresh-fallen snow on deep green leaves, even in the spring, to remind him of his favorite season, winter. It’s his best effort to create his own White Christmas in a town that rarely receives snow. The distylium, pittosporum, lororpetalum, and abelia he has nurtured with every loving watering and every little secret he confides in them are fodder, helping their branches reach toward the sun at his urging. They’re planted in a row of fertilizer at the front of Akaashi and Kenma’s shared townhouse. Kenma isn’t much for horticulture and house decoration outside of Animal Crossing, so the front yard is entirely, quintessentially Akaashi. 

Akaashi’s favorite part of the garden, though, isn’t a plant. Next to the mailbox, is a “little free library”: a wooden box with a glass door sitting atop a small post, displaying one shelf that can fit up to about 6 _Moby Dick_ ’s, give or take. The rule is simple—if you want to borrow a book, leave a book in its place. The rule is neatly inscribed in black paint on the side of the library, in Akaashi’s precise handwriting. Akaashi had ceremoniously “opened” his little library shortly after he and Kenma had moved in, thinking it fitting since he was starting the new chapter of his life in this neighborhood as a bookstore owner. Akaashi keeps the library fresh, by occasionally rescuing an under-appreciated book from the store from accumulating too much dust. 

In the library today are four books, one of them must have been swapped out by a neighbor today, since he doesn’t recognize the binding. _The Kite Runner_. Akaashi peers in through the mini-library’s glass door to take note of the new addition, having just returned from a shift at the bookstore. He opens the tiny glass door and takes out the book, humming a quiet tune as he walks up the steps to the porch and loving the comfortable weight of a new book in his hand. 

Kenma is inside in the kitchen, cautiously cutting open a cardboard box. When a new video game shipment comes in every week, Kenma always looks like a kid on Christmas morning, basking in the anticipation for a new discovery. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” Kenma takes out the contents of the box, shiny plastic cases protecting pre-release video games that the famous streamer, **kodzuken** , is sent from video game companies for him to try out. The cases are usually undecorated, since Kenma receives them before the official art is finalized for the case’s cover. Being one of the top five streamers in Japan must be a lot of pressure, but Kenma is never fazed. 

Next to the cardboard box is a plate of saran-wrapped chocolate chip cookies, piled on a white plate. The cookies are sizable and have a generous chocolate chip to dough ratio, as if the baker responsible erred on the side of too much rather than too little. Akaashi raises his eyebrow, knowing that Kenma is more of a cake person than a cookie person. Following Akaashi’s gaze, Kenma pushes the plate toward Akaashi. 

“Our new neighbors stopped by today to say hello while you were out. Bokuto and Kuroo. They brought these over.” Kenma finishes throwing away the plastic padding and breaks down the cardboard box, cleaning the countertop so he can start making dinner. 

“Oh? The house across the street?” Akaashi remembers a moving truck in front of the house directly across from their street yesterday. 2164 Maple Street, a light-blue house with a brown shingled roof, finally had some new inhabitants. 

Kenma nods and Akaashi asks, “What are they like?” 

The last people to live across the street were a family of three, moving out because the husband had gotten a new job overseas. Akaashi remembers the mother would often contribute to the little free library, swapping out Akaashi’s favorite adventure books for romance tragedies. Akaashi wonders what kinds of books the new neighbors enjoy. 

“ _Big and loud_. You should introduce yourself to them tomorrow, they’re still unpacking and will be in the house the whole day.” 

Akaashi agrees, remembering his own move-in with Kenma after college graduation. Kenma’s streaming equipment alone had taken about half a day to unpack and set up, even with Akaashi’s assistance. Kenma and Akaashi had been assigned college roommates their freshman year, and their peaceful demeanors led to an equally peaceful coexistence. None were the type to bring in rowdy friends or stay up too late when the other was in the room. A silent bond had formed between them when Kenma had asked Akaashi what he liked so much about books after learning Akaashi was a literature major. Kenma favored video games for a storyline that he had control over. Akaashi had considered this with a smile and said, “Video game stories and book plots aren’t all that different, but I do like being able to play out scenes in my head.” 

Living in a house rather than a dorm room had changed only some of their living dynamic. Though similar in temperament at first blush, Kenma and Akaashi are more complimentary than identical. Kenma handles the cooking (or food-ordering, since his streaming schedule can get a bit hectic) and helped with the house repairs when they had first moved in. Akaashi, a semi-serious minimalist, took over the responsibilities of laundry, tidying, and dusting the house every week. 

Taking off the saran-wrap, Akaashi hands a cookie to Kenma, who has already tied up his long, bleached hair to prepare tonight’s omurice. Akaashi then bites into one of his own and is pleasantly surprised by the softer texture of the cookie, which has a nice hint of brown sugar. Akaashi doesn't have much of a sweet tooth, but the taste of this cookie is wonderfully homemade, perfectly sweet enough. 

Maybe they could invite the neighbors over for dinner in the future.

✧ ✧ ✧

Like clockwork, at 6:30am on a Tuesday, Akaashi opens his door to stroll out to the front porch, watering can in hand and mug of coffee in the other. The morning fog is a bit chilly, so Akaashi decides to run in and grab his favorite cardigan, a cozy brown shawl made of scratchy wool. He sets his mug and watering can on the front porch to head back in the house, convinced that with his jacket, he will be ready to start the day.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

As he opened the front door, Akaashi Keiji heard a shout that can only be described as booming. 

“NO SCOUT, NOT THERE! Oh my goodness, GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW, OR I’M SENDING YOU BACK TO THE SHELTER, **I DON’T CARE** IF IT’S ALL THE WAY BACK IN TOKYO.” 

Akaashi is a mere body in his doorway, soul escaping through his mouth as he is greeted with the terrible image of a giant German shepherd urinating in his beloved lororpetalum. Except this isn't a dream, it's very real. The mug of coffee Akaashi had so carefully placed on the concrete of his porch was spilled, presumably knocked over by the dog, Scout. The dog’s leash, which was on the ground, is quickly snatched up by a rather tall man with spiky gray hair, black roots ruffled as he runs a hand through it, facing Akaashi in embarrassment. Despite his hulking stature—the man was ripped—he seemed comically abashed and his expression rivaling that of a sulking child. 

“I am SO, _SO_ SORRY.” 

The tall man pulls on the leash, guiding Scout away from Akaashi’s poor, defiled plant baby, as Akaashi picks up his mug and makes a mental note to bring out some wet paper towels to sponge up the remains of his fallen americano. 

“I would have liked us to meet in a much better way, but nice to meet you! I’m Bokuto, from across the street!” 

Bokuto extends a hand, the one not tightly gripping the leash, and Akaashi stands up and shakes it, noticing that Bokuto’s hands are uncannily calloused, as though he has been rubbing them on asphalt all day. _He must work out_ , Akaashi muses, since Bokuto is also wearing a tight-fitting running shirt, hugging his broad chest. With a smile so wide and ribcage bursting with energy, Bokuto has an infectious energy that explains why he can keep up with his dog, at least most of the time. 

“Hello, Bokuto-san. I’m Akaashi Keiji. You met my housemate, Kenma, yesterday.” 

“Ah yes! Kuroo really seems to like him. Were you about to water your plants? Scout seems to have done that already.” Bokuto chuckles at his sheepish joke, while Akaashi’s eyes narrow, not forgetting the offensive act. 

“Yes, I always do this before I head to my job. I don’t mean to be rude, but I should hurry up and get going.” 

Akaashi picks up the watering can and deftly gives each bush their allotted water, whispering apologies that he cannot do it with more care. Bokuto watches him, Scout tugging at his leash, asking to continue their walk. Much like Scout, Akaashi wonders why the muscled man has not taken off yet. 

“I can walk you to work, ya know! I don’t know my way around town, could I come with?” Bokuto’s eyes turn to Akaashi and plead with him. If Akaashi wanted to, he swears he could easily imagine a tail wagging behind Bokuto as well as Scout. The endearing image is almost enough to forgive Scout for terrorizing his garden. 

“Sure. It’s a bit of a walk, almost at the boardwalk by the beach.”

“That sounds great! Scout and I love the beach. Let’s go!” 

Soon enough, Akaashi is a bit winded, because although he is supposed to be leading the way to _The Quill_ , Bokuto’s long strides and Scout’s unlimited endurance make him feel as though he should be walking at a faster pace. The streets of Shimoda are relatively quiet in the morning, but there is some bustle as shop-owners and fishermen make their preparations for the weekday. With Bokuto in town, the usual commute to work seems a lot more exciting. The brisk pace they’re walking at keeps Akaashi warmer than usual, cheeks flushed and heart light. 

“Say, Akaashi, what do you do for a living?” 

“Right now, we’re walking to _The Quill_ , my bookstore.” 

“YOU OWN YOUR OWN BOOKSTORE? That’s so awesome! You don’t look that old.” Akaashi is first taken aback, but lets out a calm laugh at Bokuto’s amazement, since Akaashi probably doesn’t look like a withering, grandmotherly librarian that normally fits the stereotype. 

“Feel free to stop by any time. We have a cozy reading area.” 

“I will! It’d be great to put in one of my videos. I’m thinking: ‘MY NEW LIFE IN SHIMODA,’ doesn’t that sound nice?” Bokuto scratches his chin, lost in thought at the prospect of a new video, as though he is trying to see if there are any other titles that are worthy candidates. 

“What kind of videos do you make, Bokuto-san?” 

Bokuto’s face lights up as he answers, “I’m a full-time YouTube vlogger! I started in university, filming lifting and volleyball videos, just for fun. I liked to share my volleyball and exercise knowledge! Initially, many of my subscribers were females, and I was going to stop after college. But a lot of my friends told me my videos were fun to watch—I didn’t believe them until I got comments from strangers saying that watching my videos cheered them up! I lived in Tokyo for a while, but the big city has a lot of creators, and I wanted to move somewhere new to get a fresh start and more content, which is how I ended up here with Kuroo.” 

Akaashi listens, wondering how it must be to lead a life like Bokuto’s, going where the wind blows, trusting good feelings and intuition. It’s the exact opposite of Akaashi’s own life, structured and pre-meditated, but Akaashi finds himself inspired by Bokuto, who seems to relish life so much that he wants to share it with others. It makes you want to see life the way he does. Akaashi understands Bokuto’s appeal, and what must keep viewers subscribed. 

“That sounds really nice. Shimoda is a small beach town, but there are a lot of special places to visit. I’m sure you’ll find all sorts of new inspiration for your videos.” Akaashi thinks about the pier, zen gardens, and numerous hiking trails that Bokuto would probably find interesting. 

“Amazing! You’ll have to show me around more, then. I trust you, Akaashi!” Bokuto laughs heartily, patting Akaashi’s shoulder, bridging the space between them a bit, as the two descend the hill, getting closer to the beach, and to _The Quill_. 

At the storefront, Bokuto looks up at the emblazoned bronze sign and grins. THE QUILL, in capital letters, is a quiet but stately presence on Seashell Way, a comfortable nook for locals to pick up the new releases or stop by to pick up some coffee and send a couple of emails. The front of the store is painted a deep, dark burgundy, and staring through the windows you can see shelf upon shelf of crowded books. 

Akaashi invites Bokuto and Scout inside, and they are welcomed with a cheery, “Welcome to _The Qui_ —Oh, it’s you, Akaashi, and who is your extremely fit companion and his dog?” 

Sugawara, Akaashi’s co-owner, is sitting at the front desk, currently sifting through a new shipment, pausing from his task of checking off boxes on his clipboard. His cheeky smile flusters Bokuto, who nervously introduces himself as Akaashi’s neighbor. Sugawara’s gray hair is a bit damp, presumably from a morning shower. A whiff of his lavender shampoo wafts their way when he rushes over to them for a proper greeting. 

“Lucky you, Akaashi. Your routine must be thrown off, today, huh?” 

“You could say that. His furry friend, Scout, marked his territory in my garden.” Akaashi looks at Bokuto comfortingly, to tell him he wasn’t really mad. 

“Not _your_ garden!” Sugawara feigns despair by bringing a hand to his forehead and tilting his head back, chuckling at his own melodrama and Akaashi’s tiny grudge. 

Akaashi looks at Bokuto, who seems enraptured by his surroundings. His eyes are darting across the interior of the bookstore. Akaashi smiles with pride, happy that it pleases Bokuto. To the left of the entrance, there is a small clearing by the window, sunshine shining down on a few cozy armchairs and a beanbag. A small, wooden desk is buttressed up against the wall, near a bookshelf with a sign that says, “Take a break with a book.” On the right-hand side are about ten rows of bookshelves, each labeled with a golden sign denoting the genre of book. At the end of each row is a small table with a potted plant, each one different from the last. Behind all the rows of bookshelves leads to a small room with about a dozen chairs and a small podium, reserved for special author readings or Akaashi’s weekly book club. 

The center of the store is the front desk, where Sugawara is often seen typing away at the work computer, reaching out to authors to get them to come and do readings. Behind the desk is a door, which leads to the back storeroom, where Akaashi is usually found, counting books and seeing which ones have been the most popular recently. Above the front desk is a birdcage that hangs down from the ceiling. Inside, a realistic stuffed animal, a familiar white owl, perches, yellow eyes greeting all who enter, the centerpiece of the store.

“IS THAT HEDWIG?” Bokuto interrupts Sugawara’s performance and points to the birdcage. 

Sugawara and Akaashi giggle. 

“Yes!” Akaashi replies. 

Akaashi and Sugawara smile knowingly at each other, childhood friends who first bonded over their love for reading because of The Boy Who Lived. Having Hedwig in their store as well as naming the store _The Quill_ , was a homage to their friendship, and to reading and writing itself. Sugawara and Akaashi hoped to make reading the magical experience it had been for them, for their customers. 

“I’m a full-blown Slytherin, Akaashi’s a solid Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff mix, and you are?” Sugawara inquires. 

“Can’t ya tell, I’m a Gryffindor!” Bokuto smiles widely. Bokuto’s face falls as he sees the clock, remembering what time it is. He looks at Akaashi, crestfallen. 

“Wow, this is a lovely place, I really mean it, I do! I would love to stay more, but I need to finish my run with Scout, or else he’s going to rampage the house when I get back! Let’s walk together again soon, ‘kay Akaashi? Very nice to meet you, Sugawara-san!” And with that, the whirlwind, Bokuto, waves his goodbye and is out the door, bell tinkling upon his exit. He is sprinting alongside Scout down the hill, to the beachside. Scout looks happy that they are out in the fresh air, bounding and straining against his leash. Bokuto really should get him a longer one. 

The bookstore suddenly feels starkly quiet without Bokuto’s large presence, but Sugawara quickly fills the silence. 

“Akaashi, you better invite that _hunk_ of a man to our surfing lesson this weekend. It’s been way too long since you’ve been on a proper date.” Sugawara hums as he walks back to his place behind the front desk and starts to continue his morning inventory check, as if he had just remarked on something as normal as the weather. 

Akaashi is mortified, glued to the floor where he stands. The books in the back would just have to wait. 

“Please tell me you didn’t forget about our surfing lesson.” Sugawara looks up, to point out Akaashi’s silence. 

Akaashi speaks after putting out the dumpster fire in his mind at Sugawara’s mention of his absent love life. 

“I didn’t forget, and I don’t need to go on a date!” Akaashi manages to get out, indignant at Sugawara, who tends to stick his nose into Akaashi’s romantic affairs way more than he needs to. 

Just last week, Sugawara was convinced Akaashi needed to ask out the deliveryman who had brought in their most recent shipment, just because the deliveryman had accidentally brushed Akaashi’s hand while handing him the pen for a signature. To speed along the process, Sugawara had slipped the deliveryman Akaashi’s business card, which included Akaashi’s cell number. And the week before that, Sugawara wolf-whistled when a cute college student had come up alone to Akaashi after book club had ended, to ask Akaashi for his thoughts on the symbolism in chapter three of the book they had discussed. The next book club, that same shy undergraduate couldn’t make eye contact with Akaashi the entire time. It was hopeless, Akaashi had decided. 

“Okay, okay fine. But think about it: our group ticket is cheaper if we can split with a third person. The grand opening of a new surf shop doesn’t happen all that often! Since Kenma hates the water, we should at least try to find someone else.” Sugawara is right, and Akaashi would rather a third person be there so that Sugawara is not spending the entire time laughing at Akaashi’s terrible balance—it’ll be Akaashi’s first time surfing. 

“Fine. I’ll ask Bokuto-san.” Akaashi relents, knowing that Bokuto would definitely love to come. Akaashi has no time to further think about what Bokuto might look like without his shirt on the beach, because Sugawara cheers in celebration, adding: 

“For someone who is trying to write their own romance novel, you’d think you would jump at the opportunity!” 

Akaashi silently considers this while scowling and decides hiding out in the back storeroom sounds like a good move for the rest of the morning. He heads into the storeroom and closes the door, sighing. 

Akaashi’s day job might be a quiet bookstore owner, but his “mistress” Sugawara had called it, was to be a novelist. Akaashi hadn’t yet found his writing voice, however, and was experimenting with different genres. His first work was a short historical fiction novella, set in Feudal Japan. It was alright, but nothing special. It had taken him a few months to write, and Sugawara had mentioned he should try the hardest genres first, so he could return to them and try again if he had needed to. Eventually, Akaashi would work up to fantasy, his favorite. 

To continue his writing practice, Akaashi had recently decided that romance would be hard enough, since he hadn’t experienced much of his own. It couldn’t be that hard, right? He had certainly read a lot about romance. He had been stuck on Chapter 1 for about two months, completely and utterly flattened by a heavy writer’s block. 

Perhaps Sugawara was right, he could use any sort of date.

✧ ✧ ✧

There is a gentle knock on the door.

Bokuto and Kuroo had been in their own respective rooms, unpacking the last of their clothes before they were going to head out to dinner at an Italian restaurant by the beach, which Bokuto had seen on his run with Scout in the morning. They had unpacked the kitchen and living room boxes first, since Bokuto had wanted to bake an enormous batch of his “heart-winner” cookies to bring to all the neighbors.

Kuroo finishes setting aside his wetsuits in one pile, regular clothes in the other. He would worry about folding and hanging them up some other time, and takes the cardboard box to the living room, where all their moving trash has been put for now, as he makes his way to the front door. 

Kuroo opens the door to a man with black hair and a delicate face, black waves falling at the edge of his eyelashes, lips pursed. The man was uniquely pretty and pensive. He wears silver glasses frames, a camel-brown cardigan and black jeans and looks as though he smells of coffee and old books. 

“Hello, you must be Kuroo-san. I’m Kenma’s housemate, Akaashi Keiji.” 

Kuroo remembers Kenma mentioning his housemate, a bookstore owner, hadn’t it been? Thankfully he remembered, because Kuroo had been _very_ preoccupied by Kenma. 

“Of course! I wish the house could be a little cleaner for guests, but you’re welcome to come in if you would like! We were just about to head to dinner, if you’d like to join us.” 

Akaashi seems a little on edge, and Kuroo can’t really place why, because they had just met. 

“No thank you, I have to help Kenma cook dinner tonight–” 

Bokuto emerges from his room, asking, “Did I hear someone knock?” 

Before Kuroo can answer him, Bokuto bounds over to the door, recognizing Akaashi from the doorway. Kuroo doesn’t miss the way Bokuto’s eyes instantaneously light up when he sees Akaashi. But then again, Bokuto gets excited about most things. 

“AKAASHI! It’s you! How was the rest of work?” Bokuto rushes over to Kuroo and Akaashi. Kuroo notices Akaashi smooth over the bottom of his cardigan, as though trying to appear neater in appearance. 

Bokuto fires probably twenty more questions at Akaashi, _poor Akaashi_. Kuroo’s phone goes off and he excuses himself, heading to his room to answer the call. It’s the restaurant, calling to confirm their reservation that he had made an hour ago. They must be busy and should head out soon to secure their spot. Kuroo’s stomach rumbles, unpacking is surprisingly more tiring than he had expected. 

Kuroo takes a look at himself in the mirror, his messy hair looking a bit wild from the day’s frantic unpacking. He doesn’t even bother to fix it, knowing that his normal hair isn’t much better. As he puts his car keys in his pocket, he wonders if Akaashi and Bokuto are still talking, so he comes out of his room to hear: 

“Bokuto-san, Sugawara and I were wondering if you’d like to come to surfing lessons with us this weekend. There’s a new place that opened up.”

Kuroo can’t stifle the laugh that escapes from his mouth. Neither can Bokuto. Even Scout looks up from his rest place on the kitchen floor at the sudden outburst of noise. 

“You mean—you mean Kuroo’s surf shop?” Bokuto can barely breathe, his laugh turning into wheezes at this point. Kuroo chuckles at the serendipitous coincidence. 

Akaashi’s eyes widen, realizing that he has invited Bokuto to his own housemate’s surf shop, in front of the owner of said surf shop. _Poor Akaashi_ , Kuroo thinks once again. Kuroo decides to rescue Akaashi, since it is a neighborly thing to do—and he is a nice person, after all. 

“Bokuto would love to, since he already promised me that he would come support me at the grand opening, anyway! Thanks to you, now he’ll have a friend to keep him company while I’m working.” Kuroo nudges Bokuto, giving him a knowing smile. 

“The tickets are on me. But— _only_ if you get Kenma to come with you.” Kuroo offers. He never knew he could be this forward, but there was something about Kenma that made him want to spend more time with him. This was the perfect plan. 

Akaashi quizzically looks at Kuroo, but says, “I’ll do my best to get him on board. Enjoy your dinner. One of you should order the risotto. It’s very good.” 

With that, Akaashi turns on his heel and waves goodbye to Bokuto and Kuroo. Out of the corner of his eye, Kuroo sees Bokuto emphatically waving to Akaashi, eyes glinting in a way that Kuroo hasn’t seen since Bokuto played volleyball in college. They don’t close the door until they see Akaashi safely cross the street and enter his own house. Akaashi seems surprised to see Bokuto and Kuroo still waving at him when he turns around to close his own door. 

"I think I'll get the risotto!" Bokuto exclaims, putting on his shoes so they can make their way to dinner. 

_Well, this should be an interesting weekend._


	2. Fun in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akaashi, Sugawara, and Kenma are out of their element at the Kanagawa Shores. Can they survive a day with the boisterous beach boys?

“HELLO EVERYONE! Welcome back to Ballin’ with Bokuto, I’m Bokuto if you’re new here! It’s a good day to join us, because today we’re at Kanagawa Beach to surf thanks to my best buddy, Kuroo! You guys remember him, right? Boy I’m so excited, I also have some new friends to introduce you today: everybody say hello to Kenma, Akaashi, and Sugawara-san! It’s a whole party today!” 

Bokuto pans his GoPro from himself, then flips it to Kenma, Akaashi, and Sugawara, who all tentatively wave to greet Bokuto’s viewers. He ends the recording, and Kenma breathes a sigh of relief. Kenma doesn’t like his picture taken, but he seems to tolerate it since Bokuto is the one holding the camera. Akaashi has never had social media, nor a major internet presence, so it suddenly feels weird to be in cahoots with such a vivacious media personality. Kenma doesn’t really count, since Akaashi has never taken part in one of his livestreams. 

The five of them stare out at Kanagawa Beach, a calm oasis with riptides small enough for beginners, perfect for Sugawara and Akaashi’s first rodeo with the waves. The beach is not too crowded, with a few families and their children digging sandcastles. Some novice surfers already seem to be braving the waters, but it is still relatively early, and the beach may become busier later on. Sugawara and Akaashi typically frequent the more touristy beaches for post-shift ice-cream or summertime suntanning, but never the more remote locations, like Kanagawa, for surfing. 

Bokuto looks straight out of a travel magazine: a red unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt peppered with white hibiscus, a pair of bright blue swim trunks with cartoon alligators on them, and a toothy smile. Sugawara is wearing an embarrassing pair of watermelon swim trunks, slightly faded in color. He pairs it with a pink button up and slung over his shoulder is a big lunchbox, stuffed with sandwiches and cut apple slices for all of them. In contrast, Akaashi had pulled out his only pair of swim trunks, a black pair with gray stitching. They made his fair skin look even paler, since Akaashi hadn’t been especially out and about these days. Kenma looked as though he had just gotten out of bed, which he had. On top of his highlighted head was a purple bucket hat with cat ears, which Sugawara had brought along and forced him to wear. 

The morning chill is already being chased away by the sun, clouds drifting away as if to say, “Don’t mind us, we’re leaving now. Have fun today!” 

There’s a sandy-colored building with a sign in the shape of a surfboard, reading “Shimoda Surf Shack” in bold, red letters. Under the sign hangs a huge banner reading, “Grand Opening!” which billows in the morning breeze. 

Shimoda Surf Shack has a large opening in the wall, lined with a counter and a sign that lists the fees for hourly surfboard rentals. There is a line of yellow-colored surfboards out front, with “SSS” printed on the surface of each board in the same red on the sign. One man, with a dark crew cut, is sitting down in the sand, waxing another board just like the others. Another, a brunette with bouncy hair, is helping fit a life vest on a customer. Sitting at the counter is Kuroo, having collected a waiver from another customer. Kuroo beckons them with an emphatic wave, grinning. He looks at home in the shack, as if he owns the place, which he in fact does. 

“Man, I knew that Ukai-sensei had a cool surf shop, but I didn’t know that I’d like it so much when I got here! I’m lucky to have inherited it from him.” Kuroo hands each of them a clipboard with a waiver for them to fill out. Sugawara and Bokuto immediately sign theirs without reading a single line of fine print, Akaashi takes his time looking through every single term and condition, and Kenma flat out refuses the waiver, telling Kuroo he’s only there to observe. 

“He’s only here because I promised him that I’d bake him the best apple pie known to mankind.” Sugawara explains, winking at Kuroo. Akaashi had told Sugawara about Kuroo’s one request, and of course, Sugawara knew exactly how to get Kenma to come. Sugawara knows how to push anyone’s buttons. 

“It can’t be helped. He can hang out with me here.” Kuroo says, taking back Kenma’s clipboard. 

“I’m not a huge fan of the ocean. Or large bodies of water in general. It’s very exposing. And I don’t like sharks.” Kenma pulls down his bucket hat further over his forehead, which he is only keeping on because he knows that he is excessively prone to sunburns. Kuroo nods, not expressing any discontent. 

“Kuroo-san, you are not giving lessons today?” Akaashi asks, having finished signing his name in neat script on the blank line at the bottom of the paper. 

Kuroo shakes his head, “No, someone’s gotta man the ship for the grand opening! Besides, you’re in good hands. Go pick up your vests and boards from Sawamura-kun and Oikawa-kun and let me know if either of them gives you any trouble. I trust them, but I always get a kick out of teasing them whenever I can.” He points to two men by the surfboards. 

Sugawara, Akaashi, and Bokuto head over to Daichi and Oikawa, who have anticipated their arrival. There are three identical boards laid out in the sand, as well as a life vest on top of each one. 

“Hello Bokuto, it’s been a while!” Bokuto and the instructor with the darker, shorter hair clasp hands and bring it together for a hug. 

They pull apart, and the instructor turns his gaze to Akaashi and Sugawara, “Is it your first time surfing?” 

Akaashi and Sugawara nod their heads, and Bokuto says, “These two, Akaashi and Sugawara, will need help!” 

“I’m singl—Suga. Are you sing—Sawamura-kun?” Sugawara asks, flashing his most disarming smile at Daichi. Sugawara tilts his head, so that the side with his mole is in better view. He thinks it’s his one of his charms, and he isn’t wrong. Akaashi internally sighs, knowing that Daichi is exactly Sugawara’s type. Shameless and Sugawara often fit in the same sentence. 

Daichi is pretty oblivious, “Yes, but please, call me Daichi! My colleague Oikawa and I will help you get your vests on, and then we can talk about getting in the water!” 

At the mention of his name, Oikawa strolls over and eyes Akaashi, Bokuto, and Sugawara up and down, as if trying to size them up. Something about this makes Akaashi squirm a tiny bit. In contrast to the clean-cut, friendly Daichi, Oikawa seems more mischievous with a touch of pomp. Both are strikingly handsome, but in the exact opposite ways. 

“I call smiley fairy-boy over here.” Oikawa picks up a life vest, and opens it up toward Sugawara, expecting Sugawara to put his hands through the armholes. Sugawara glares at Oikawa, and Akaashi knows that it is because his plans at having dreamy Daichi as his instructor for the day are shot. 

Still smiling, and still oblivious, Daichi continues, “Well, I guess Bokuto will be in charge of Akaashi!” Bokuto grins at Akaashi, and Akaashi can feel his face heat up a bit. Why did Bokuto always look so happy to see Akaashi? This is all Sugawara’s fault. Sugawara had planted a seed, and it was beginning to sprout! Bokuto holds up a vest for Akaashi to put on, and helps buckle him in. Akaashi feels a bit like a kid being dressed by their mother. After he’s done putting Akaashi’s vest on, Bokuto puts on his own vest. 

Daichi and Oikawa brief the three of them on the sand at first, encouraging them to get on their boards and practice positioning for paddling and “popping up”. Daichi apologizes and leaves midway to help out with a new group of customers, much to Sugawara’s disappointment. Kuroo seems to be happy at the influx of more rental customers, even though he has to interrupt his conversation with Kenma to do so. 

Next, Oikawa and Bokuto help Sugawara and Akaashi with foot placement on their boards. Akaashi yelps and almost loses his balance on the board when Bokuto leans down and places a _very_ calloused hand on Akaashi’s thigh to help adjust his footing. To stabilize himself, his hands flail instinctively and grab onto Bokuto, who is easily within reach since Bokuto had been kneeling. Bokuto’s shoulder is _firm_. _What is he, carved out of stone?_ Flustered, Akaashi regains his balance and apologizes. 

“No worries, you can always learn on me! Footing is important when you’re out there alone, though, Akaashi. Try bending your knees a lil’.” Akaashi relaxes and bends his knees, trying his best to ignore Sugawara’s snicker from behind him.

✧ ✧ ✧

“How did you get the shop?” Kuroo raises an eyebrow, having only heard small taps from Kenma, who had been playing on his smartphone from the minute he had sat at the counter. Kenma has finished playing a round of a game, deciding to entertain Kuroo, whose not-so-furtive glances the whole time have been making him a little bit uncomfortable.

Kuroo continues simply, “Ukai-sensei decided to move back to help out with his parents’ farm since his father has been hospitalized. He couldn’t leave the managing to Daichi or Oikawa, since they’re only part time—they play volleyball professionally, so they’re training for most of the time on the weekdays. He asked me to move here as soon as possible, and I’d do it again for him. I owe him a lot.” Kuroo sets down a life vest he had been holding, returned to him from a surfer who had just finished for the day. There’s a trace of wistfulness on his face; Kenma can tell that whatever he’s thinking about, it’s something far away, or something that happened a long time ago. 

“Volleyball?” Kenma ventures, curious because his own frame is small and nonathletic, hardly the makings for any kind of professional athlete. He never understood athletes who exerted themselves for a game that could be lost so easily, where there were no extra lives or rematches. 

“Yep. Of course, you know Bokuto, who has been a great ace since middle school. Daichi’s a strong receiver and a reliable wing spiker, and Oikawa is definitely one of the best servers you’ll ever meet.” Kenma masks his surprise, since Oikawa and Daichi were definitely very athletic, but he hadn’t expected them to be anything outside of being avid surfers. 

“You seem to know a bit about it.” Kenma prods, the statement more of a question than an assertion. 

“I used to play with them, but I got a pretty brutal shoulder injury in university and quit soon after.” Kenma understands now: Kuroo had been told _Game Over_ before he had been ready to face it. Kenma silently considers what would happen if he were to lose his fingers or eye vision, not being able to play video games anymore, deciding it’s something he wouldn’t want to think about either. 

“I’ve had a bit of time to get over it though. What have you been up to?” 

“I’ve been playing Genshin Impact, I have a charity event for it on Wednesday and I wanted to decide what kinds of playthroughs I want to do.” 

“Ooooh, I’ve played a little of it. Don’t a lot of people spend a ton of money on it?” 

“I have my sponsors.” Kenma isn’t just anybody, he’s **kodzuken**. Not too shabby for a twenty-three year-old streamer. 

“Tell me how that works.” 

“Well for the event on Wednesday, if someone donates a certain amount, I can fulfill certain requests, like playing a special character, going to a different part of the map, or using a certain weapon.” Kenma cuts his list short, not wanting to bore Kuroo with the details of something that is unfamiliar to him. 

“I see. When Dainsleif comes out, you should play as them.” Kuroo says this nonchalantly as he wipes a cleaning rag over the counter, mopping up some sand and seawater accumulation from the day. He must follow the game closer than he let on. _Interesting_. A closet gamer. 

“Why?” Kenma had seen the updates and new proposed playable characters and hadn’t been especially impressed by any of them. Diluc, his character right now, should be good enough for the Wednesday livestream. 

“I must have a thing for mysterious, attractive blonds.” 

“He’s a male character, you know.” 

“Oh, _I know_.” 

_Ugh, not again_. Kenma shrugs, deciding that is indeed enough socializing for the day, telling himself he’s fairly earned Sugawara’s apple pie. Sugawara’s apple pie was second to none, and even better with some vanilla bean ice cream on the side. Kenma had first tasted it at the bookstore when Akaashi had asked him to drop off his glasses from home. A slice left over from the week’s book club—love at first bite.

✧ ✧ ✧

“That’s it! You both look like pros!” Bokuto gives Sugawara and Akaashi a double thumbs up, while Oikawa smirks, the most approval they would likely see from him. Akaashi and Sugawara have finished what must be their thirtieth repetition of positioning practice, chests heaving at the workout.

“They do indeed seem to be getting the hang of it. Shall we get going?”

The four of them drag their boards to the shore. Bokuto dons a stretchy, tight headband with his GoPro attached to it, looking like he’s going on a mining excavation rather than filming a YouTube video. One by one, they get on their stomachs on their boards, and Oikawa pushes them off. Bokuto and Oikawa follow up behind Akaashi and Sugawara, paddling slowly but surely to the white water. Despite all the practice, Akaashi’s arms were not totally ready for the actual resistance of the moving water, feeling a slight soreness after a few minutes. 

“Okay, remember what we practiced. First wave is mine, so you can see an example. Then, Mr. Fairy is next, and then Bokuto, then Akaashi. We’ll follow this order for the rest of the day.” Oikawa’s voice is clear and commanding, cutting across the burble of the waves. Sugawara scrunches his nose at the nickname, but they all nod and paddle-tread, trying to keep their position in the water. All of them are silent as Oikawa’s head is perked up, looking for a good time to go ahead. 

Finally, Oikawa gives a final push into the water, places his hands on the board, and pushes his upper body up, and quickly stands in a crouching position within the span of a few seconds. He steadies himself as the wave behind him gets bigger, then breaks and pushes Oikawa, standing on his board, toward the shore. The wave had been fairly small, yet the whole process had been so undeniably cool. Bokuto cheers, sitting on his board next to Akaashi. 

Oikawa turns his body, making his surfboard parallel to the shoreline, to slow down. He is a seasoned pro. Soon enough, he gets back down in paddle position and makes his way back over to the rest of the three. Oikawa makes it look ridiculously easy, but his sinewed back muscles and toned arms show through his rash-guard, betraying his obvious strength. Bouncy hair now a little more wet, he turns to Sugawara and says, “How was I?” 

Sugawara rolls his eyes, “Passable. My turn!” Perhaps Oikawa’s ease had given them all a bit of confidence. Sugawara eagerly paddles forward a bit, away from the group, and tries to mimic the same set of actions they were taught on the beach: paddle, pop, crouch. Though Sugawara’s initial timing is a bit off, he manages to catch a smaller wave that brings him forward. Sugawara’s footing is steady, feet placed exactly where Oikawa had shown them, the good student he is. The only deviation from perfect is that he’s crouched lower than necessary, probably because it feels more stable that way. Bokuto and Akaashi whoop, cheering him on as he rides out the last of the wave, and Oikawa gives a few claps. 

As Sugawara returns, Bokuto lines up and paddles to position, eyes intense with concentration as he waits for a good wave to arrive. The biggest wave yet starts to form, and Bokuto laughs in excitement, knowing this will be a fun time. He expertly pushes himself up, spreading his arms out for balance as he stands, shouting, “Hey hey hey!” as he glides through the water, closing in on the shore. Akaashi finds himself laughing, and he’s not the only one: Oikawa and Sugawara are chuckling too—Bokuto’s infectious spirit getting through to each and every one of them. 

“Didja see that? That was great!” Bokuto yells, having ridden out the wave the furthest of the three. He manages to turn himself around and return, whooping the whole way and paddling swiftly and deftly as though the water is mere air. 

Akaashi knows it is his turn, and he is a little nervous. The last time he did something like this was when he tried to skateboard in high school and wiped out on the side of the road. It was unhelpful to recall that unpleasant memory, but he couldn’t help it. Before he is able to scold himself for the thought, Bokuto encourages, “You got this Akaashi!” 

Akaashi takes a deep breath and paddles a little bit further and manages one final push. He steadies his palms on his board, which is pretty slippery, but manages to stay on. Akaashi tries to place his feet as quickly as possible, flapping his arms to help him balance—and then he feels it. 

Akaashi is gliding through the water, wind rushing at his face, but feet relatively unmoving, besides the occasional adjusting for better balance. He lets out a yell of triumph, in spite of himself, and hears Sugawara, Oikawa, and Bokuto cheering him on from behind him. Riding the surfboard to the shore is _extremely_ liberating, reminiscent of when he first learned to drive, knowing he can go anywhere and everywhere he pleases. 

“Come on back now!” Oikawa calls out, and Akaashi lowers himself onto his board and paddles back to them, still giddy off the high of his newfound love for surfing. 

“That was fun, huh?” Bokuto asks, sending a playful splash Akaashi’s way. 

Akaashi doesn’t even mind that his hair got wet and nods, eyes crinkling as he remembers the feeling. 

The four of them go again, the second time no less magical than the first. Oikawa gets an even bigger wave this time, Sugawara stands fully upright, and Bokuto tries to strike a cool pose as he’s riding out his wave. Akaashi feels better about his second time around, and as he’s paddling back, feels good in his skin and doesn’t mind the exhaustion of having to paddle back and forth. He decides that a lot of work is worth it if he gets to fly on the water again. 

The sun sinks a bit lower in the sky as the group of four continue their rounds. Akaashi is getting more and more confident in his abilities. 

On his fifth time around, Akaashi is feeling good and thinks he knows what he is doing. He stands up, but a bit too quickly, losing his footing on the slipper surfboard. He falls rather ungracefully, leg knocking with a dull thud against his board, body smacking the water on his descent. Everything is a swirl of white bubbles within an instant; the sting of his skin from slapping the water is now replaced with a tingling cold as the water washes over his body. Akaashi kicks his legs, forgetting that one of his legs is trapped in the safety anklet that is tied to the board. The waves aren’t as violent as they could be, but Akaashi is a little worn out from paddling and cannot fight at his strongest to stay above the water. His head bobs in and out of the water as his arms struggle to push his body upward, losing his will to fight with each passing second. 

Suddenly, he feels a strong grip around his waist. It’s too late though, because Akaashi’s vision is fading at the edges and gradually fades to black.

✧ ✧ ✧

Akaashi’s eyes flutter open and he feels himself bouncing up and down. He tries to move his leg, but there’s a sharp pain. _That’s going to leave a bruise._

“Hey, you’re awake!”

Akaashi is finally aware of his surroundings—painfully now aware of the fact that he is being carried _bridal style_ by none other than Bokuto Koutarou on the shore of Kanagawa Beach. Bokuto’s GoPro headband is now sopping wet and hanging around his neck, and Bokuto’s hair is completely drenched. What once was spiky and gelled is now fallen and plastered to his forehead. The gray and black strands don’t point straight into the sky, but now go past his ears. Akaashi follows water dripping from the ends of Bokuto’s hair onto his neck. Bokuto looks much different with his hair down, he looks younger, he looks goo— God, _what in the world is he thinking?!_

“You can put me down. I’m so sorry. Please put me down.” Akaashi panics and moves his head, which has been resting on Bokuto’s warm, bare chest. Bokuto’s heartbeat had sounded like the steady pounding of a large drum. Despite just having emerged from the ocean, Bokuto’s body was inexplicably warm, radiating a heat that enveloped Akaashi. 

“Hey, hey, I’m not putting you down unless I was convinced you could walk okay on your own, which I’m pretty sure you can’t, given that nasty shiner on your leg.” Bokuto chirps, walking over to Kuroo, who is laying out a large beach towel next Kenma, who is holding a bag of ice and two bottles of water. Kuroo looks concerned, but Bokuto nods his way and Kuroo nods back. 

Bokuto gently sets Akaashi down on the towel, waiting for Akaashi to stretch his legs out so that he can place the bag of ice over Akaashi’s gnarly shin bruise. Akaashi winces a bit, but withstands the cool burn, knowing that it is for the best. Kenma hands a water bottle to Bokuto, who promptly uncaps it and holds it up to Akaashi’s lips. 

“I think it didn’t help that you may be dehydrated. Happens to the best of us.” Kuroo says this as he drapes an extra towel around Akaashi’s shoulders, while Bokuto tips the water bottle up, spilling water into Akaashi’s mouth. Akaashi feels embarrassed at how well he is being taken care of, but his arms are so tired and his legs are so numb that he makes no protest. 

“You did look pretty cool _before_ you wiped out.” Kenma offers, his best effort at making Akaashi feel better. Kuroo chuckles and agrees. Akaashi does feel a little bit better, giving Kenma a small smile of gratitude. 

“He also looked cool when he _did_ wipe out! Wiping out like that means that you aren’t afraid of getting hurt.” Bokuto says, patting Akaashi on the back as though Akaashi had planned to wipe out all along, like a professional stuntman of some sorts. Kuroo and Kenma absolutely lose it, knowing that Akaashi did not in fact, plan for that to happen. 

“Well, I have to go close up shop, we’ll go tell the two amicable lovebirds to come back to shore.” Kuroo nudges Kenma, and they head off to the shore to call Oikawa and Sugawara back. They’re currently not even surfing, engaged in a water fight. Oikawa is losing, Sugawara vehemently splashing Oikawa in an effort to get his bouncy hair one hundred percent drenched. Oikawa is relieved to hear Kuroo calling, his hair safe from total destruction. 

Bokuto sits down next to Akaashi and turns to him, “You feel alright?”

“Much better now. Thank you. I had fun today, and you are a great teacher, even if I did wipe out.” Akaashi knows that he’ll wake up to serious soreness all around tomorrow, and that it won’t help when he has to work at the bookstore on Monday, yet he had such an enjoyable time that it was all worth it. 

“Nah, that was all you. You should have seen your face. You were really flying out there.” Bokuto replies, then shakes his head to dry off some of his wet hair, as though he has just emerged from a relaxing shower instead of rescuing Akaashi from drowning. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve felt this way.” Akaashi remembers the feeling of weightless gliding, having felt both powerful for riding on top the wave, yet simultaneously vulnerable because he was at the mercy of the ocean’s will. Trusting in the world, when the world can throw him under—yet chose to let him fly, just for a little—is a beautiful thing. The feeling glows in his chest; he lets it fester inside him so he can savor it.

Bokuto tilts his head, “Really? We gotta get you outside more, then. What do you normally do for fun?” 

Akaashi wonders if it’s alright to tell Bokuto about his side hobby, since telling more people about it means that people might expect more of his writing—which is why only Sugawara had known about his pursuit so far. His insecurity about writing will only get worse if he bottles it in. So, he confesses: “I wouldn’t say it’s all for fun, but I’m trying to write my own novels.” 

“What are they about?” Bokuto asks such simple questions—not because he can’t think of another question—but because he really wants to know, eagerness portrayed in his expression—infused in his eyebrows. Akaashi wants to tell him everything, because being listened to as if you’re the only person speaking in the entire world is intoxicating. 

“Well, I’m trying to go through the different genres for practice. Right now, I’m on romance. It’s really hard.” 

“Why is it so hard?” Again, a simple question—this time, Akaashi isn’t sure of the answer he puts forth. 

“I don’t have a ton of romantic experience, so the writing comes out really stiff. The words don’t flow like I want them to.” Akaashi stares down at his bruised leg, presently under a pile of half-melted ice. He had gotten used to the chill, but now that there was silence, the chill was once again noticeable. His last serious infatuation had been in high school, memory sullied by a bunch of mixed messages and unrequired feelings. There wasn’t much beyond that to tell. However, the whole experience had made him more averse to the dating scene than he’d like to admit. 

“Would you like help with that?” Bokuto places his hand on a spot of sand right behind Akaashi, turning his chest towards him—it isn’t a joke. 

_Um, what_. Suddenly Akaashi’s mind devolves into a dumpster fire once again. All logic is out the window. Nothing in Akaashi’s body was working: his leg is bruised, his arms are cesspools of lactic-acid buildup, his heart is in overdrive, and his once-reliable brain can only draw up blanks. Unlike Bokuto, whose wet hair is amazingly, effortlessly attractive– _stop, Akaashi_ –Akaashi’s own hair must look like stringy seaweed, complimented with a mouth gaping like a fish. 

“Bokuto-san, what do you possibly mean by that?” 

“I just—y’know, we’re both trying to achieve similar goals. I need more content for videos, and you want to write your books! Since you already know the town well, you can take me to the best spots, and we can pretend like it’s a date in between my filming. Win-win, it’ll be more fun that way!” Bokuto is _excited_ now, eyes wide and breath held for Akaashi’s response. He can feel Bokuto’s gravitational pull telling him to say yes. 

“If it’s really no trouble for you, I can agree to it.” Akaashi musters, feeling the most spontaneous that he has ever been in his entire lifetime. He swallows in an effort to dispel the leap in his stomach. _Will this really pan out?_

“Of course it isn’t! You’re helping me. I have a good feeling about this.” Bokuto sighs in contentment, turning his fiery gaze from Akaashi to the sun setting over the ocean. The two sit in comfortable silence, enjoying this last bestowed blessing of the day. 

The peaceful lap of the waves at the sand becomes mere background noise to a loud _squak_ coming from over by Kuroo’s surf shop. 

A seagull, lured by Sugawara, who was cooing and holding a piece of bread to coax it closer, had been unsuspecting as a scheming Oikawa crept up behind it to scare it. The seagull senses Oikawa, screeches, and in a frenzy of flapping feathers, flies directly away from Oikawa, which happens to be where Kenma is sitting. Kenma lets out a gasp and quickly scampers away to hide behind Kuroo, using him as a human shield. Oikawa is beside himself with laughter, Sugawara smacking him in the side for scaring the small seagull away. 

“ **STOP MESSING AROUND WITH THE SEAGULLS!!!** ” Everyone freezes, shocked by the sudden outburst. It’s Daichi, stomping up from behind the board rack, having just finished putting everything away. Even Oikawa fixes his posture, sassy smirk nowhere in sight. _What a 180 from his normal, friendly self!_

Daichi mutters something that sounds like “ _just a bunch of kids_ ” as he heads to his car, Kuroo yelling, “Nice work today, Daichi!” after him. 

Akaashi can’t help but think his life has gotten a lot more eventful since Kuroo and Bokuto moved to town. It’s only been a week and his life has already been turned inside-out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your encouragement on the first chapter! I got so fired up that I began writing the second one right after it. I'm a bit tired and still trying to flesh out the details for each couple (I'm having an especially hard time with Kuroo and Kenma). Anyways, if you can't tell already, I am trying to spread the #Oisuga agenda via a love triangle.


	3. Uncharted Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Sugawara YouTube stalks Bokuto, Akaashi internally implodes, and the 'bros' lift some weights.

Sugawara is restocking the Sci-Fi section of _The Quill_ , humming along to “Honey” by Kehlani as he stacks some book about an extraterrestrial apocalypse on the shelf with author surnames L through P. 

His humming is a way to calm himself down, because this Monday morning had been one disaster after another. First of all, his car had run over a nail as he was trying to park in the back of the store. Then, he had to spend thirty minutes on the phone with the most unhelpful insurance agent known to mankind. After yet another thirty minutes of waiting, Sugawara watched a tow-truck take his beloved light-yellow car to the shop. The icing on the cake was when he had finally walked inside _The Quill_ to see Akaashi precariously carrying a piping hot coffee dispenser on his own to the reading nook. Sugawara had been incensed, because Akaashi’s leg was still not fully healed, and rushed over to help. Akaashi breathed a panted thanks as Sugawara helped shoulder some of the weight. However, the top of the dispenser must not have been on all the way, and a good amount of scalding coffee had splashed onto Sugawara’s collarbones, eliciting a sharp hiss and biting down on his lip to avoid dropping the dispenser. With a coffee-stained collarbone and a red, blistered neck, Sugawara was hardly the picture of composed grace that everyone expects from him. 

Sugawara had scolded Akaashi for not calling over Kenma or simply waiting for Sugawara to come inside. Akaashi had apologized, while reassuring Sugawara that he doesn’t always need to dote on him— _his bruise is only a bruise_ , he says. Still skeptical, Sugawara had had no time to protest as Akaashi escapes once again to the back storeroom to begin his daily check. Huffing, he had decided to change into a spare shirt that he has saved for emergencies instead of continuing to lecture Akaashi. 

Putting another book on the shelf, this time about a dystopian about a disease outbreak in a future Japan, he heard the familiar notes of the shop phone ringing. Shelving the book, he ran over to answer it. It could be the author for the book on botany that Sugawara had emailed upon Akaashi’s request—oooh! Maybe it was the author who had wrote a series on a love story between two members of the world’s most famous ensemble orchestra—the series that Sugawara had binged read last week. Sugawara felt good about this call as he picked up the handle and brought it to his ear. 

“You’ve reached The Quill, how may we help you find the perfect story today? Suga speaking.” Suga’s customer service voice rang perfect through the phone cord, slipping out as second nature. He felt good saying something _rehearsed_ , signaling a return to normalcy, already forgetting the rocky start to his day. 

There’s a laugh from the other end. Sugawara’s whole attitude changes within a millisecond, and he is ready to let this person have it. All the rage he had hidden behind his smiles from this morning was starting to slip through the cracks. 

“I’m _really_ not in the mood for a prank call today, my car is in the shop and my favorite shirt is _ruined_ and now I’m airing all my grievances to a _stranger_ who couldn’t care less! Goodb—” 

“Mr. Fairy, it _is_ you!” _Unbelievable_. Out of all people who could have called this phone… Why was it the person he least wanted to be on the other end?

Sugawara is very careful about his next question, “How did you get this number?” 

“I asked Kuroo where you work, and he gave me a name, apparently for Shimoda’s best and only bookstore.”

“Well, these are my work hours, and I’m not paid to talk to you. I wouldn’t even talk to you even if I were paid to do so!” Sugawara is mad, deciding that Oikawa is the best person to let out his pent-up rage on. Since he was just an annoying acquaintance, he hadn’t and would not care about what Oikawa thinks of him. He was tired of being Mr. Perfect all the time. Or Mr. Fairy. Whatever Oikawa had nicknamed him. 

“Ouch. Hey, I can call you on your personal cell if that works too. I have that from when you booked the surfing lessons.” Sugawara’s mouth drops open, letting out a silent, tiny scream of frustration. He composes himself and decides a retort is the best reaction here, one that is entirely justified because Oikawa is getting on every one of his nerves. 

“Staaaalker much?” He hopes Oikawa cannot hear the slight tremble of anger in his voice. 

“It’s not stalking if I work there, sweetie. Are you free after your shift today? It sounds like you could use a break.” _The audacity._

“Not for you. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your friend is much more my type.” Sugawara launches into full-blown daydream, remembering the first time he laid eyes on Sawamura Daichi. Now _that_ was a man. A man that looked reliable and honest, who could come rescue him on _terrible_ , terrible days like these ones. 

“Oh, Daichi? Pfft. What’s so great about him, especially when I’m the one right here, talking to you?!” 

Sugawara takes the attack on Daichi as if an attack on himself, shooting back: “Again, I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

Akaashi appears from the back storeroom, not looking up from a book he’s holding and says, “Suga, what about this for our next book club?” Thankful for the rescue, Sugawara sees his exit opportunity, and will take it with glee. 

“Is that Akaashi?” _How nosy._ Sugawara is surprised Oikawa can recognize Akaashi’s voice in the background, given that they had only spent one day of surfing together. Perhaps Oikawa was less self-absorbed than his flashy hair would suggest. 

“Yes, I have to go now.” 

“Is that still a no—” Sugawara feels no greater satisfaction than hanging up on Oikawa mid-sentence. Perfect. Apparently, he had slammed down the phone a little harder than necessary. A stray reader in the Creative Nonfiction section had glanced over at the commotion. Akaashi is also staring at him, as one would stare at a deranged, unfamiliar cat that is in your backyard, not sure if it’s going to hiss at you. 

Sugawara clears his throat and says, “What’s up?” to ease the tension.

Akaashi says, “Who was that?” 

“Nobody! What book is that?” Akaashi looks relieved to be able to talk about the book, clearly noticing Sugawara does not want to talk about who he was on the phone with. Of the two, Akaashi is definitely the less prying. 

“ _The Kite Runner_. It appeared in the little free library, and I noticed we had some spare copies in the back. I started reading some of it and I think it would be a good candidate, especially since we just finished a more light-hearted fiction book last week.” 

“Ah, switching it up I see. Sounds good to me, I’ll pick up a copy when I leave today.” He hopes that it will finally be a normal day for them.

✧ ✧ ✧

It’s noon, and thus the slowest hour of the day at The Quill, when Akaashi and Sugawara generally take their snack break. Since Sugawara had seemed anything but his usual self earlier this week, Akaashi had ordered them bento boxes for their Friday lunch splurge and put in a special request for an extra side of spicy tofu for Sugawara. Hopefully that would cheer him up a bit.

Tipping the food deliveryman a few dollars, he takes in the bento box to the front desk, where Sugawara looks up from his computer in delight, tipped off by the smell emanating from the bag Akaashi is holding. 

“Akaashi, you’re the best!” 

The two open up the takeout, break their chopsticks, and get to munching. It had been an atypically busy Friday, since they had hosted a special event for the release of a new young adult fantasy book based on the grim reaper. Dealing with a horde of competitive adolescents fighting for their copies had been mentally and physically draining. With the lunchtime lull, they could afford to take a longer lunchbreak than usual to recharge and reset. 

“You know, I could use some entertainment while we eat.” Sugawara gets to typing on his computer, while Akaashi thinks nothing of it, continuing to methodically rotate between his side dishes. Sugawara generally plays some music during lunchtime, sometimes singing along and trying to get Akaashi to join in. 

However, today it’s different. A song resembling those that are placed in action movies blares through Sugawara’s speakers. Akaashi looks up from his meal to see Sugawara captivated by whatever is on screen. The action song is playing while a montage of a beach, complete with beautiful waves is being shown. _Wait a second._

“HELLO EVERYONE! Welcome back to Ballin’ with Bokuto…” Akaashi is aghast, seeing the familiar Kanagawa Beach onscreen, and then a transition to a very flustered Akaashi, Sugawara, and Kenma waving in front of the camera. Akaashi stares at himself on screen, wondering if he always looks like that. Sugawara is giggling, loving every second of this. It’s the beach video that Bokuto must have edited and uploaded fairly recently, given that they had been at the beach last weekend. He recognizes a short clip of Shimoda Surf Shop, with Kuroo, Daichi, and Oikawa out in front. 

Sugawara pauses the video, noticing Akaashi’s apprehension. 

“Aren’t you curious about what he posts? Not even a little bit?” Sugawara asks, giving Akaashi his best puppy-dog eyes, which Akaashi has gotten used to ignoring through the years. For some reason, today he gives in. They continue to watch the video. 

The video is now showing Bokuto’s point of view from the GoPro. It’s strangely exhilarating to see the ocean from this vantage point: the viewer can see what it’s like to be right in the waves, without getting wet at all. Even though it’s a GoPro video, occasionally shaky with Bokuto’s movement, the quality is sharp and the video feels professional. Akaashi can see Bokuto’s arms in the shot as he paddles, and it feels like he is with him on the surfboard. As clips of Oikawa, Sugawara, and Akaashi surfing play out, Bokuto talks about each one of them briefly. 

“You guys might recognize Oikawa from my _HOW TO MAKE THE PERFECT SET_ video, linked here!” Bokuto’s voice is strangely less loud than it is in real life, perhaps because Bokuto edits it to be softer, so that you can hear the background noise of the waves better.

“Sugawara-san and Akaashi are my new friends from Shimoda and have been so nice to show me around. Even if you move to a new place, if you have good friends like them, it’ll feel like home in no time!” 

“What a good guy.” Sugawara smiles, obviously touched by the sentiment. So is Akaashi. 

The video concludes with a dozen clips of the sunset, while Bokuto tells his viewers that surfing is not as intimidating as it looks, “…because if you are afraid of the water the whole time, you will never be able to focus on how it feels to conquer the waves.” Each clip of the sunset is unique, even though it’s the same sunset from that day. He also encourages them to do something new on their weekends, because they may miss special spots that they’ve lived close to their entire life if they don’t. 

“That’s all for today, everybody! Like and subscribe to be a part of the fam and see you very soon!” 

Akaashi is intrigued. The video had been put together so well, with tasteful editing and music. Even Bokuto’s mention of Kuroo’s surf shop did not feel like an inserted, intentional advertisement. Everything about the video had showcased Bokuto’s visual experience for the day, yet he still effectively infused his thoughts and reflections from the outing. The narration had seemed like a more polished version of Bokuto’s everyday speech. Akaashi is still getting over the initial weirdness of watching Bokuto’s videos, because Bokuto is someone they know, not someone distant who they can only find on the internet. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it? What should we watch next: ‘I ADOPT A DOG’ or ‘MY EXPERIENCE AS HIGH SCHOOL VOLLEYBALL CAPTAIN’? Those are his two most watched.” Sugawara asks, also pointing out how Bokuto’s video titles are all written in caps, much like how he speaks. 

Akaashi doesn’t answer, mostly because he knows Sugawara will inevitably play both of the videos, if not more. Sugawara makes the executive decision himself and clicks on a thumbnail of a scruffy brown and black dog. 

“HELLO EVERYBODY! Boy, oh boy am I excited. I’m taking Kuroo along with me today to the shelter to ADOPT MY VERY FIRST DOG! I couldn’t even sleep last night, but eventually I did—because if I did not sleep, how would I get to tomorrow, which is today!? Oh—I almost forgot: Welcome back to Ballin’ with Bokuto, with I guess—Bokuto!” Onscreen is a slightly younger Bokuto, sitting in the passenger’s seat of a car next to a very sleepy Kuroo, whose bedhead is still remarkably the same as usual. 

Bokuto explains during the car ride to the shelter that he is looking for a dog that is slightly older than a puppy, because he and Kuroo will both be taking classes and do not have time to train a dog from the ground up. He’s surprisingly done a lot of research for someone who made it seem like it was an impulsive decision in the introduction of the video. Though it looks to be the early morning, Bokuto is as peppy as ever. 

At the shelter, Bokuto films a shy volunteer who takes them into a large room with several cages. Bokuto has a strange way of choosing his companion, by yelling out, “WHO WANTS TO BE MY FRIEND!?” much to the bewilderment of the volunteer. 

Surprisingly, there’s a hearty _yip_ from one of the cages on the bottom row, and the camera shakes as Bokuto steps to cage with the dog that had barked. Inside the cage is a much younger Scout, who looks adolescent and as though he is just getting used to his new, longer limbs. He looks at Bokuto, or the camera, with curious eyes, tongue hanging out and tail thumping in anticipation. His fur is scruffy, his ears are pert, and his eyes are full of love. Akaashi’s heart can’t help but melt, even if the older Scout had committed an atrocity in his garden. 

“KUROO, I’M TAKING THIS GUY! Wait, is he a guy?” Bokuto asks the volunteer, who confirms and says, “His name is Scout.” 

The camera then turns to Kuroo, who is preoccupied with cuddling with a small, tortoiseshell kitten. He’s caught in the middle of nuzzling the the soft kitten’s ear with his nose. _Kuroo’s a big softie._

“Kuroo, aren’t you allergic…? That’s why we agreed on a dog, right?” 

“Only a little.” Kuroo’s sniffles betray him, but he’s clearly infatuated with the cute kitten, who mewls at Kuroo’s chin scratches to ask for some more. He looks in love with the small kitten and whispers a heartfelt goodbye when the volunteer asks him to put the kitten back so that Bokuto and him can walk out front to sign the paperwork. 

Scout, now out of the cage, zooms around the little room and then stops at Bokuto’s feet as if to say, “Thanks!” 

The video concludes with a shot of Bokuto and his newest friend, Scout on the couch together. Bokuto explains the process of adoption and how long it had taken him to find a good shelter. He then goes on to detail Scout’s adjustment period and what kinds of modifications Kuroo and him had made to their apartment to accommodate for Scout. Sugawara scrolls down the page a bit to read the description, which has a whole host of links to animal adoption centers. 

Sugawara, finishing a bite of his tofu and rice, gulps and nudges Akaashi with his elbow. “His videos are strangely informative, huh?” Sugawara is a scarily fast eater who can finish off a plate of anything spicy without tearing up or having to blow his nose. 

“I’d say so. It’s like he’s trying to teach you something that he has just recently learned himself. As if he’s your best friend and needs to tell you about something that just happened to him.” 

“That’s a good way of putting it.” Sugawara sets down his bento box and clicks on their last _Ballin’ with Bokuto_ video for this lunch break. The clock reads 12:20pm, 10 minutes before they should start resuming their work. 

“HELLO EVERYBODY! Today’s video is going to be a bit different than my vlogs. I want to tell you about my experience as high school volleyball captain! To do this, I have to show you how I started and what I did to change. Please don’t laugh too much at baby-Bokuto, he was doing his best!” The opening clip is a picture of Bokuto and his volleyball team, each member with a black and white jersey that reads: Fukurodani Academy. They’re a decorated volleyball team, wearing medals that shine just as bright as their smiles. 

Bokuto seems to be speaking to the camera from an empty locker room. He’s probably just finished practice. “The best quality of a captain is to know his team. He’s a bit like a setter in that way, but different because he has to know how to bring the team together, and how to lift the team up when they’re down.” Akaashi thinks Bokuto is a good fit for captain, though Bokuto has probably learned how to be encouraging and uplifting as he is throughout the years. 

“Don’t be afraid though, the captain does not take on all the responsibility. If you have a strong team, the team supports each other just as much as the captain does!” 

“When I first joined high school volleyball, I was too worried about being the star of the show. Sometimes I still am! But I know that in order for me to do the best, my team has to be doing the best. I had to change my perspective on teamwork.” In the background, a teammate with flat, olive hair comes in the shot and ruffles Bokuto’s hair, deadpanning, “You still sulk sometimes.” A good natured Bokuto playfully shoves him out of shot while saying, “I’m talking to my viewers!” It’s cute that he’s left this interaction in the video. 

“I started to practice every day with my setter. Here’s a game clip from when I first started.” The shot changes to a clip with a setter who quickly tosses the ball in the air in front of a shorter, less built, Bokuto who swipes at the ball, landing it in the opposite court. Though Bokuto is smaller, his power and potential are undeniable. The ball deforms as it hits the ground with an echoing smack. 

“The ace is not built in a day. It took me several years to get my spike where I wanted. And in the end, an ace is only an ace when his team relies on him.” 

A transition fades into a new clip, presumably present-day Bokuto with a different setter. This time, Bokuto is in his full glory, biceps flexed and core tightened as he makes the leap up to the setted ball. Bokuto’s legs form a mighty squat and straighten up to fly into the air. His form causes the blocker to jump slightly to the side, anticipating a cross-shot. Instead, Bokuto’s hand makes a booming contact with the ball for a line-straight shot. If you blink, you miss seeing the ball land right on the line, before anyone on the opposing side can do anything. Akaashi is spellbound by the power and control Bokuto wields. He wonders how the ball didn’t pop upon impact. 

“You have to believe that you will get to it by doing everything single thing you can and learning from others along the way.” It’s hard to believe that the spike they just saw was not a God-given feat, rather built from tireless practice. Not all volleyball players could move like that. Akaashi and Sugawara had known Bokuto was a talented volleyball player from what Kenma and Kuroo had told them; but, seeing is believing. 

“Well, that should be enough Bokuto for the day, especially since you’re seeing him for your _date_ tonight.” Sugawara teases, dragging out the “a” in date longer than is really necessary. He pauses the video, Bokuto mid-sentence about what his daily practice schedule in high school had been. 

Akaashi calmly composes himself replying, “You know it’s not like that. It’s pretend.” Akaashi glances at Sugawara, reminding them of their conversation on the drive back from the beach. Sugawara had laughed the entire way home after learning about Bokuto and Akaashi’s new arrangement. Kenma had looked up from his phone, also amused by Akaashi’s predicament. 

“ _Everybody_ knows that these things aren’t really pretend. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Akaashi.” Sugawara chides him as he cleans up the bento boxes and consolidates the used chopsticks and lids. Akaashi wants to protest, because he won’t let Sugawara have the satisfaction of seeing him flustered. Apparently only Bokuto can do that unfailingly. 

“I’m serious. Strictly work buddies.” 

“ _I_ AM _YOUR_ WORK BUDDY!” Now Sugawara doesn’t care about teasing Akaashi about Bokuto, pride hurt. Successful in his endeavors to rile Sugawara, Akaashi goes in for the final kill to make his point. 

“Don’t be jealous, Sugawara- _san_.” Akaashi emphasizes the -san, knowing it will bother Sugawara even more. He silently relishes in his little backtalk. 

“Drop the stupid -san! Geez, it’s like you never even knew me.” Sugawara pinches Akaashi’s cheek on his way to throwing their trash out, unceremoniously plopping the food bag in the trash with a bang. Akaashi knows Sugawara isn’t really mad, because he’s whistling one of his classic tunes on his way to back to the computer.

✧ ✧ ✧

Akaashi had just gotten home from his shift, too nervous to eat the early dinner of anchovies, rice, and broccoli that Kenma had prepared ahead of time especially for Akaashi. Bokuto was picking him up in 20 minutes, which was not enough time for him to mentally prepare for their trip to the aquarium.

“If you aren’t going to finish that, why don’t you try getting ready? You could use a distraction.” Kenma notices that Akaashi has been picking at his food, which he only does when he is nervous. Again, they had been living with each other for way too long to deceive the other. 

Akaashi gulps, “I’ll save it for after my dat- _outing_! It’s delicious as always Kenma, I'm just not too hungry right now.” He puts a hand on Kenma’s and gives it a quick squeeze before putting the contents of his plate into a Tupperware and into the fridge. 

“Don’t forget to have fun, Akaashi.” Kenma is staring at Akaashi, something indecipherable in his hooded, narrowed eyes. Unfortunately, it’s been a great while since either one of them has been out on a Friday night. They usually spent Friday nights together on the couch sharing a blanket: Kenma putting on a movie or lazily playing a game for fun instead of work, while Akaashi would make himself a cup of tea and settle down with a book. Before heading to his room, Akaashi gives Kenma a slight smile, knowing Kenma means well, although they won’t have their relaxing evening together. 

In front of his closet, Akaashi changes into the clothes that he had decided on the day prior: dark burgundy corduroy pants, a navy-blue sweater with a white collar, and a black button-up jacket. Leaving it to the last minute was not something Akaashi would normally do, especially since he knows that he would never be able to trust last-minute-Akaashi’s fashion decisions. He decides against swapping out his silver frames for contacts, knowing that his eyes get dry the later it gets in the evening. As the cherry on top, he spritzes his favorite cologne, which smells vaguely of peppermint. _This is as good as it gets._

Then, the doorbell rings. _Was the doorbell always that loud?_

Akaashi goes to the front door, passing Kenma to answer it. Bokuto takes up the whole space beyond the doorframe. He looks good. If this isn’t supposed to be a date, why does it feel so much like one? At any moment in time, it feels as though Akaashi’s father is going to pop out, saying, “Who is this young man, and what business do you have with my son?” or Akaashi’s mother suddenly apparating, “Wow, Akaashi, this man is so good-looking, seems gentlemanly too!” Akaashi’s troublesome imaginations are dissolved when Bokuto speaks. 

“Hey ‘Kaashi! You look very nice, ready to get going?” He gestures to his car behind him. Akaashi nods, ready to head out and thankful that Bokuto spoke for the both of them. This new nickname Bokuto has for Akaashi makes his heart flutter a little bit. _It’s nothing._

Akaashi is surprised to hear Kenma say, “…Did you guys mean to do that?”

“Do what?” Bokuto asks, just as confused as Akaashi is. 

“You’re color-coordinated,” Kenma says, eyeing the two of their outfits. It’s almost hilarious. Bokuto is wearing a burgundy long-sleeve, _which really compliments his golden eyes_ , and dark blue denim. His athleisure tennis shoes are black. It’s literally as though they chose from the same color palette and assigned the same colors to different articles of clothing. Akaashi’s face is heating up, because this is supposed to be a _pretend_ date—against all other indications. _How is this even possible?!_

Written on Kenma’s face is a tiny, knowing smirk. Kenma turns back to his plate and commences finishing his own dinner.

✧ ✧ ✧

Akaashi had told Bokuto that the aquarium had special Friday nights, namely the light show. What this meant is that every Friday, many of the larger tanks would have special, colored lights on. On any other weekday, the aquarium closed promptly at five o’clock, before it gets dark. Since Akaashi had never been before, he figured now was as good time of any to fully experience everything there was to do in Shimoda.

“’Kaashi, this is the best aquarium ever!”

Currently, they’re in a tunnel with glass walls. Shimoda’s aquarium is renowned for being one of the few fully “underwater” aquariums. Akaashi feels small in this aquarium—but in the best way possible. The collective mass of water, kelp, and fish around him remind him that the world has many special creations in store. This tunnel is lit up, shifting between yellow and green mood lighting. Bokuto is running alongside the tunnel window, one hand pointing his camera, the other reaching out to touch the glass. 

Akaashi and Bokuto weave their way through halls, stopping occasionally for Bokuto to get good shot of an exhibit or of a fish he really likes. _That one has a light on its head!_

Being with Bokuto is authentic and real. Before, Akaashi had been of the camp that social media takes away from the moment. Why capture the moment just for the camera instead of experiencing it, living it yourself? 

Now, Akaashi stares at Bokuto, whose side commentaries to his camera are also just as much for Akaashi. It feels as though Bokuto is memorializing their time together, because he is. Strangely, Bokuto is living more in the present than anyone he knows, even with the camera—or maybe because of it. 

Bokuto is polite, _gentlemanly_ even, about stopping the camera for most of the time to ask Akaashi about his day and telling Akaashi about his own as they continue through exhibits. The conversation then turns to their past, what they did before they moved to Shimoda. It’s easy and so, _so_ comfortable to talk to Bokuto. He doesn’t need to try, he doesn’t need to force a conversation to happen, which sometimes happens when Akaashi is with others he doesn’t click as well with. Every time Akaashi turns his eyes from the fish to Bokuto, he is always shocked to see Bokuto staring back right at him. _Oh, what the heck._ Akaashi won’t outright admit that he enjoys the attention, because he doesn’t want to enjoy it too much. 

After some time, they reach a particular room that seems a bit bigger than the others. It’s an exhibit with tide-tanks, where visitors can reach their hand into a shallow tank and feel sea stars and sea cucumbers. This exhibit is not as well-lit, perhaps because it is more popular during the day. 

“Oooh, let’s go see the sea stars!” Bokuto and Akaashi walk over to the tanks. Akaashi usually would not partake in touching the creatures, because it causes too many inconveniences—he would have to put on hand sanitizer and the cold water would leave his slender fingers much colder. However, he’ll do it for Bokuto. 

After rolling up his sleeve, Akaashi pokes a tentative finger into the water, breathing a little heavier because the water is much colder than he anticipated. The sea cucumber he decides to prod is extremely rubbery and doesn’t flinch at Akaashi’s ginger touch. Perhaps the sea cucumber had mentally clocked out, deciding to no longer react to bothersome aquarium visitors past his regularly scheduled slots. 

Bokuto is right next to Akaashi, unconsciously making a huge watery mess, splashing as he moves his hands around. 

“Akaashi, what’s that?” Bokuto suddenly asks, nodding his head toward a spot in the sand.

There’s a tiny pile of sand near Bokuto’s arms, probably hiding a sea star. Akaashi bravely decides to poke inside the tiny dune of sand. Suddenly, he feels something warm and skin-like. That was decidedly _not_ a sea star. Akaashi can’t help but let out a small yelp at the unfamiliar contact. Bokuto’s hand emerges from the sand, revealing itself to clasp Akaashi’s own hand. Bokuto can’t stop laughing. Everyone in the exhibit is looking at them, especially since Bokuto’s laugh is so distinct and not very quiet. 

“I can’t believe you fell for that!” 

Akaashi, embarrassed and at a loss for words, draws his hand away from Bokuto’s to give him a small splash. Bokuto snickers and sends Akaashi a cheeky grin, too proud of his little ruse. 

“I can’t believe you would do that to me!” Akaashi fires back. 

“ _Excuse me_ , please do not splash each other.” There is a stern woman in a purple polo-shirt with the aquarium logo on it. Akaashi and Bokuto nod in apology, before shaking their hands dry and putting on some soap. As they leave the exhibit, they look at each other and try to stifle their laughs. Akaashi feels unreasonably giddy, like he’s in grade-school again. 

The two find themselves in the main attraction of the aquarium, the largest room of all. Each wall is a window to the water. There are even panels of glass on the floor itself. For all they know, it could be the world’s biggest submarine. Without any lighting, it would be hauntingly dark for this time of day, but the colored lights make it magical. The water lights fade from teal, light purple, pink, to blue. Some large fish pass by the windows, making their night commute to who knows where. Since the water is darker, some fish suddenly become visible, highlighted by the lights, then disappear as quickly as they had arrived. _This is the most interesting light show I’ve ever seen,_ Akaashi notes. 

This is the quietest Bokuto has been. Akaashi glances at him while he drinks in his surroundings, obviously speechless at the pretty display around them. 

“Let’s sit down, Bokuto-san.” 

They rest side by side on a nearby bench, legs touching, as they continue to bask in the spectacular sights of the unusual water-room. The familiar feeling that Akaashi can talk to Bokuto about anything returns. 

Not looking away from the walls, Akaashi asks, “Bokuto-san, why do you make your videos?” 

“The same reason you want to write a story, Akaashi.” In all his years of reading and writing, Akaashi had never felt a clear goal for his writing beyond an itch to form his ideas into lasting paper legacies. Usually, he just wrote because it felt right. There was not a clear reason. Maybe Bokuto could tell him what it was. 

“Hm?”

“The way I see it, we’re both storytellers. We want to share a message with the world with what we make.” With such simple words, Bokuto is again oddly poetic. Akaashi had never thought about it like that before. 

“Oh. What message are you trying to convey, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi guesses that Bokuto wants to empower the world—to tell his viewers that no matter what they face, to live strong and live life to the fullest. 

He’s taken a bit aback when Bokuto says, “I’m not sure yet.” But then, he turns to smile at Akaashi, “When I find out, I promise you’ll be the first one to know!” Content, Akaashi feels a swell of pride that he is special enough for Bokuto to make such a bold promise to. 

Bokuto’s face now wears some concern, “Akaashi, are you cold?” 

Akaashi looks down, realizing that he has retracted his hands up into his sleeves. They’re still cold from the tidepool exhibit where they had put their hands in the water. It’s always been that way: Akaashi’s fingers demanding extra mittens or gloves in the winter, feet wearing sometimes two layers of socks on chilly days. 

Akaashi answers, “It’s fine, my fingers are still warming up from the water, is all.” 

“Well, if someone were on a date, let’s just say that this should happen.” Bokuto takes both of Akaashi’s jacket sleeves in his, reaches in and takes Akaashi’s hands in his own. Akaashi’s heart begins to stammer a mile a minute, now that Bokuto is holding Akaashi’s hands to his lips to blow on them. Bokuto’s warm breath is definitely working and Akaashi’s fingers feel warm and tingly as if they had fallen asleep. 

“B-bokuto-san, you don’t need to do that!” 

“Ah, but I want to.” This is definitely more than Akaashi can handle. Thankfully, Bokuto stops blowing after a minute or so. They both stand up, but this time Bokuto takes Akaashi’s right hand in his own, and they continue their date. _Yes, a date,_ Akaashi decisively admits to himself, because he definitely would like to remember it as such for the rest of his life. 

The rest of their date is no less eventful. In the penguin room, Akaashi remarks that Bokuto looks like one of the fuzzy gray penguin chicks, to which Bokuto denies any sort of resemblance. Akaashi thinks it’s adorable that Bokuto denies this similarity, because the fluffy gray and black feathers are so obviously reminiscent of Bokuto’s spiky hair. Bokuto gets one shot of the penguin for his video, so he can ask his viewers if they look alike to prove to Akaashi that _he does not look like a baby penguin!_

It’s getting late, so they leave the underwater aquarium. They pick up some food on the way home, on Bokuto’s insistence because he had heard Akaashi’s stomach grumble as they were leaving.

✧ ✧ ✧

“Pass me a towel, please.” Daichi hands Oikawa a towel after spraying some cleaning disinfectant on it. They were finishing up their chest and triceps circuit at the gym. The satisfactory burn in Daichi’s chest reflects a new personal best, which he will be sure to write down later in his calendar when he gets home.

Kuroo wheezes after counting out, “fifteen”, returning the bar above him to a locked position. He sits up from a reclined position on the bench, taking the towel from Oikawa to clean down the bar. There’s a huge shine of sweat from Kuroo’s back on the black bench, which he wipes down as well. 

Daichi claps Kuroo on the back to remind them that they’re not yet done. Kuroo groans. Oikawa grimaces. 

Oikawa croons, “Dai, I’m exhausted. You _know_ practice went overtime today. Kuroo and I can’t always keep up with you and Bro-kuto.” 

At the mention of Bokuto, Kuroo’s sweaty face perks up. “I wonder how his lovey-dovey date with Akaashi is going.” 

Daichi raises an eyebrow. “Bokuto is on a date?” He hadn’t seen a lot of Bokuto since he and Oikawa had moved from Tokyo to Shimoda to play for the team there; however, he had remembered that Bokuto wasn’t the type for casual hookups—though he did like to party. It seems uncharacteristic that Bokuto would find someone to ask on a date in a new town that quickly. 

Kuroo sighs and briefly explains Bokuto’s spur-of-the-moment, elaborate plan to get Akaashi to fall in love with him, but that it was silly because it was supposed to be “pretend.” Bokuto had been so confident with his “foolproof” plan that Kuroo’s skepticisms did not bring him down. When Bokuto had an idea in his head, it was usually impossible to stop him. Kuroo had learned this a long time ago. 

“What’s done is done. He’s doing better than I am, at least.” Oikawa brings his hands to his face and covers his eyes for a bit to wipe off sweat—yet it kind of looks like he’s also sulking. Daichi feels absolutely no sympathy for Oikawa, who turns down a random girl from the gym at least twice every week after his workouts. Oikawa has also been voted “Most Handsome” out of their teammates by Twitter polls, so why was he talking like this? 

Kuroo, Daichi, and Oikawa make their way over to the next set of machines they’ll be using. Kuroo and Oikawa are walking slower than they normally do. Daichi would normally point that out, but he’s still interested in what Oikawa had said. 

“Spill. It’s not like the Great King of casual dating to be down about love.” Daichi can’t contain his curiosity any longer. Neither can Kuroo. They both decide to humor Oikawa, who loves having the whole floor to speak. 

“He’s—he’s just _so_ damn feisty. I can’t get him out of my head.” 

The two easily egg him on, “Who?”

Oikawa looks a tiny bit hesitant to answer, “The one fawning over you at the surfing lesson. Sugawara, or _Suga_ , as he introduced himself to you.” Oikawa does a rather terrible impression of Sugawara’s smile and head tilt towards Daichi. “You know, this might be the first time I’m jealous of you, Dai.” 

“Wait—what?!” 

“Are you serious, Daichi? Even _I_ noticed that. He was pretty into you.” Kuroo and Oikawa seem to be disappointed, but unsurprised by Daichi’s lack of awareness about anyone who was interested in him. They shake their heads simultaneously, as if to say, _this dude will never get the memo._

Daichi is in the middle of processing Sugawara’s recent advances when he realizes that there is a very obvious solution to Oikawa’s dilemma: “So why can’t you just tell him that I have a girlfriend? Michimiya and I have been steady for a while, you know that.”

“That’s the thing—I want him to _fall_ in love with me. To _choose_ me. I’m Oikawa Tooru, I’m _not_ just the only option because the other guy has a girlfriend! Narrowing down his options is losing.” When Oikawa gets in moods like these, the guys know not to push any farther. In fact, it sounds exactly like when Daichi has to listen to Oikawa talk about any one of his many rivals. Tooru is a rather polarizing personality. 

Daichi chuckles, “Well, you never are one to back down when the going gets tough. I’ll give that to you.” 

Shaken out of his grievances, Oikawa brightens. “Thanks, Dai. I’ll take that as your blessing to steal your man~!”

“He was never—ugh, stop stalling. Time for triceps. You guys are softies today.” 

Daichi sets Oikawa’s tricep weights a little heavier than they normally are, thinking Oikawa could use the extra focus. Oikawa sits in the chair and flexes, while Daichi and Kuroo encourage him on for their final rotation. 

“You can do it!” Daichi means that Oikawa can get through the set, like any normal person would interpret it. 

However, Oikawa seems to take the encouragement differently, yelling, “THIS ONE’S FOR YOU, SUGA!” as he grunts in effort, lifting the weights with perfect form while straining his already-toned arms. 

Kuroo and Daichi exhale tired laughs together as they carefully spot their spirited friend through his set. Oikawa may be the best-looking player on the team, but he sure looks pretty unattractive when the vein on his forehead pops out during his workouts. 

_At least if Sugawara breaks Oikawa’s heart, he’ll have his best friends to come back to and blow off steam with_ , Daichi hopes. They’ll be okay.

✧ ✧ ✧

The door to Akaashi’s room is closed, but there is a thin glow of yellow light that seeps out from under it.

Inside his room, the analog clock on the wall reads 1:00am. 

Akaashi is all business. He’s in his most comfortable pajamas and showered, though his belly is uncomfortably full from his two dinners a la Bokuto and Kenma. You never would have guessed that he had been in a lovesick daze a few hours ago from the meditative expression that is furrowing his brows. A notepad full of Akaashi’s bullet-pointed ideas lays on the desk he is sitting at, ink still drying from his last reflections. 

To ward away the food coma, his favorite mug is filled with marigold tea, steaming next to his open laptop. He stretches his fingers and places them on his keyboard, ready to embark on a semi all-nighter to finish chapters one and two of his romance novel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aquarium that Bokuto and Akaashi had their first pretend date at is inspired by the Shimoda Floating Aquarium: https://japantravel.navitime.com/en/area/jp/guide/NTJtrv0502-en/
> 
> Also, this may be the only time we see Daichi's POV, hopefully I did him justice!
> 
> More emphasis on Kuroo and Kenma for next chapter, and of course Bokuaka will be there as well.


	4. Lost Sleep, Lost Sets.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want to be unwell, together?" 
> 
> I love Tendou but he most likely will not appear in this fic, hence the mini reference to his iconic line. 
> 
> NOTE: This chapter contains a mini time-skip spoiler for Semi Eita, but it's nothing big.

Kuroo is in the sublime state of half-existence before a deep slumber. Outside, cicadas chirp love songs to one another, the rustle of the wind coaxing dandelion seeds off of their stems. The cool breeze enters through the window, lazily flapping the curtain. _This is paradise._ The feeling of simultaneous floating to dreamland while sinking in the bed is quite delicious, especially after a long day when the sadist Daichi has torn all their muscles at the gym. He wouldn’t give up this up for the world—wouldn’t give this up for—

And then his door opens. Light from the hallway falls squarely onto Kuroo’s face and orange of his closed eyelids is as bright as day. Kuroo squeezes his eyelids tighter, as if to deny the reality of being ripped from his sweet release of sleep. _Goodbye, my paradise._

“Kuroo, you up?” Bokuto stands in the hallway, casting a shadow over Kuroo’s bed. Despite his hulking frame, Bokuto is akin to a child who had come to his parents’ room to tell them about an unpleasant nightmare. He can’t blame Bokuto, Kuroo had immediately gotten ready for bed at an uncharacteristically early time after he had returned from the gym to give his muscles some time to heal. Usually at this time, he was up watching volleyball videos or meme compilations to end his day. 

“…Now I am.” Kuroo sits up in his bed, smacking his lips to wake himself up a bit more. There’s no going back now. He doesn’t mind all that much, since he knows Bokuto would not have roused him from sleep unless it was relatively important. Bokuto is still dressed from his date with Akaashi. He knows this because he had helped Bokuto pick his outfit before he had left for work that morning. 

“SORRY!” 

Kuroo pats a spot near the foot of his bed, beckoning Bokuto to sit and tell him what’s on his mind. 

“I know I said it was pretend, and it is technically still pretend. But I had a really good time. What did I do to myself?!” Bokuto sits down, putting his head in his hands at his own misery. Sighing, he sits up, face red from the pressure of his palms but also due to a tiny blush. The room is still dark, only partially illuminated from the light bursting in from the open door. Bokuto sulks on the portion of the bed that is unlit, which makes his normally sunny disposition appear a tad gloomy. 

“Bokuto, I did tell you this was going to happen.” Kuroo had repeatedly told Bokuto that he might regret setting up a false relationship from the start, if his initial attraction was real. However, Kuroo can’t help but think that maybe Akaashi wouldn’t have said yes if it were the real thing from the get-go. 

“That’s true. I didn’t listen. I’m the worst.” _Uh oh._ Bokuto was about thirty seconds away from falling into one of his spirals if Kuroo doesn’t do anything. Kuroo knows that Bokuto had tried his best, so it’s his turn now. Kuroo throws his pillow at Bokuto to shake him out of it. 

Kuroo means every word he says when he replies, “No, you’re not. Think of it this way—Akaashi is going on dates with you. If he didn’t like you, it would be easier to have just said no. If you’re going through all the motions of a normal date, who cares if it is pretend for now?” This seems to pose a new perspective to Bokuto, who sits on the edge of Kuroo’s bed with his chin in his hand. Bokuto is sufficiently encouraged, now that he has a new frame of mind. His gray eyebrows knit together as he ponders further. 

“What if my feelings become more real, but our relationship is still pretend?” Bokuto’s intense gaze is concentrated on Kuroo, hanging on Kuroo’s unsaid response as if it is a life-or-death matter. Used to this stare, Kuroo takes his time to deliberate on the best response, because it was a valid question. 

“Then you’re going to have to tell him when you get there. For now, it could help to take it slow. Get to know each other. Fall in love like a normal person, got it?” He can tell that Bokuto is not fully satisfied with this answer, but Bokuto cannot come up with a better course of action himself. They exist together. Kuroo is no longer sleepy, so he takes a minute to lean forward and stretch out his calf. Bokuto lays down on Kuroo’s bed, hands folded under his head as he stares at the ceiling, obviously still over-the-moon about his date. 

“So… It went well?” 

“YOU BET! ‘Kaashi is just—just so—I don’t know how to explain it just yet, but he makes me feel at peace. One look from him—knowing he’s there, seeing the same things I’m seeing, doing the same things I’m doing—it’s nice…”

“Wow. I think I sorta get what you mean. But usually, you’re better at describing things.” 

“Hey! I can’t help it. I’ll try again some other time. Wait—what about you, did you get to talk to Kenma today? 

The third and final housemate, Scout, pads his way through Kuroo’s doorway and presumptuously steps onto Kuroo’s bed. He lies down and places his head on Bokuto’s belly, which elicits a ‘Hey boy, how ya doin’?’ from Bokuto. Scout loves Bokuto’s warm body. It may as well be a mini heater. Kuroo scooches over to scratch Scout behind the ears, his favorite. 

“I’ve been over every other day-ish to say hello. It’s hard because he works from home, so it’s not like I can bump into him somewhere else. Maybe I should lay off. At this point, I’m just coming across as a really nosy neighbor.” Ever since Kuroo had moved in, he had manufactured excuses to visit Kenma: borrowing a pair of scissors, asking for some salt, or asking for directions to the nearest grocery store. Each time, Kenma had answered the door with a pair of headphones with cat ears, long hair sweeping the top of his hoodie as he would slide the headphones off to hear Kuroo’s requests. He felt bad for possibly interrupting Kenma’s work, but what else was he supposed to do? 

“Ah. That is a hard spot to be in.” 

Kuroo’s voice grew a little quieter, “I don’t mind. Maybe it’s not meant to be.” These things were bound to happen. Kuroo hadn’t had a successful relationship ever since his ex, Tsukishima, had left him in freshman year of college. Despite your best efforts, you could never control love. He wishes he could, because getting over volleyball was still something he had to do. Learning the hard way is not fun. 

“HUH?” Bokuto’s shock roused Scout from his place on Bokuto’s belly. Kuroo chuckled as Scout let out a soft bark at the disturbance. Ignoring Scout’s small protest, Bokuto continued, “Kuroo, you’re always scheming. Come up with something better. You’re the one that’s good at plans, not me.” Kuroo laughs because they both know he is referring to Bokuto’s fake-dating plan with Akaashi.

“He’s perceptive, so I’m pretty sure even my subtle advances will be stopped if he can reject me with no problem. At the same time though, I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. He’ll definitely shut me out if I do.” 

“You’ll find a way through it. He reminds me of when you used to be less social. Remember?” Bokuto lands a small punch on Kuroo’s arm. Kuroo winces, triceps still sore. Kuroo was not a natural extrovert, if anything he was an extrovert in situations where he had to step up to the plate. As he found himself in more and more situations, people in volleyball and in other parts of his life had come to trust Kuroo as a leader. 

“Yeah, I do…” 

Kuroo lays back down, next to Bokuto. The two friends continue staring at the ceiling, each pondering their own relationship quandaries in contemplative silence. 

“We’re screwed.” Bokuto and Kuroo wake Scout up again, because they’re laughing at their crushes on the two men across the street.

✧ ✧ ✧

Ring light blaring, headphones on, and can of soda open, the only sound is Kenma’s furious keyboard combinations as he attacks his opponent on his livestream and the occasional ping, signaling a message from one of his viewers. Whereas other streamers are popular for their boisterous personalities and confident plays, **kodzuken** is the streamer that you appreciate for the pure skill. His strategies are subtle, but effective. Any gamer against him might underestimate his dodges and small attacks at first, until you’re unexpectedly on your last leg of HP and **kodzuken** goes for broke, using his special saved attacks. 

Regardless of game, Kenma has a knack for any sort of puzzle, any type of fight. 

And he’s sort of funny in his own way, he guesses. Why else would he be in the top ten streamers in Japan? Kenma doesn’t know it, but his eyes light up with a slight derangement when he passes a level or kills off a hard boss. He doesn’t have celebratory dances, but he does have a wicked smile that he wears upon victory. You can tell how much effort he’s putting in by the amount scrunch in his nose, and the number of dry quips he makes to the side which the mic still picks up. 

This afternoon, he’s especially on fire. In the zone. His player darts and slashes with amazing speed, stabbing his opponent in the back with a final charge. He doesn’t even blink, eyes long deprived of moisture. His tunnel vision blocks out his streaming chat-box, which shouldn’t be happening because **kodzuken** is technically still taking donation requests for what player and weapons he should use. A percentage of donations for today are going to a local Shimoda animal shelter. He’s definitely racked up enough to make a significant contribution. 

Falling to his knees, the opponent’s character doubles over and dies, dissolving into a grand shimmer of sparkles, which is how a death is signaled in this game. Kenma is shaken out of his game-induced stupor at the victory, fist forming a small ball of triumph. He leans back in his chair to take a sip of his soda while his eyes skim the chat. 

The chat-box goes wild, pinging endlessly as his viewers comment on his most recent kill and congratulate him for beating his opponent, who happened to be another popular player. Most of them are expressions at disbelief and shock, because it had been a pretty close match after all. 

“Alright. I can only take one more request for today.” Kenma wants to wrap up the stream so he can get a start on preparing food for dinner. There are a few donors who donate a couple of coins with pretty meek requests to play another round with a skin of his choosing. He lets a few more people send requests in, still recuperating and relaxing his muscles from the tension of the last match. He preemptively decides to follow through on whatever the highest donation request is, not wanting to take the time to think about what the most interesting one would be. 

That’s when he sees it: 

**kur0o_1 has donated 50 coins.** It’s the amount Kenma has listed for a custom request, which Kenma doesn’t get often, because his most popular requests he makes the cheapest to inflate the number of donations. As it stands, **kur0o_1** ’s donation is the highest bid for a request. No requests bubble in after. 

Another ping. **kur0o_1:** hey kenma, my custom request is to take you on a date. txt me, kuroo. 

Kenma is about to make a sly comment to his viewers to pass off the message as a joke—because it is, right?. He’s too slow to do so. The chat ensues in chaos, since it was not a private message. Several more pings signify other messages and reactions. Amidst the “lmaoooo”s and “wat just happened”s, one message in particular seems to be getting a lot of attention: 

**peach_bomb:** kodzuken in love???!!1? give them a chance!

That message is liked and hearted by dozens of users, a change from the normal meme reacts and skull emojis that are more typical sights on Kenma’s streams. There’s no way he’s getting out of this. Kenma is a streamer who will follow through on his requests. Cursing his duty to his channel and to his viewers, he pulls out his Samsung and pulls up his contact for Kuroo which reads, “loud neighbor”. The chat pings with more messages, speculating on who this mysterious admirer may be. Regretfully, he knows his sponsors will love any spike in activity to Kenma’s channel. This better not be a regular occurrence. 

Though Kenma should be in a post-victory mood, he feels like someone who has just lost. Kuroo had backed him into a corner. It would be foolish to deny that Kuroo was interested. Kenma was usually distracted by video games, which people always assumed meant he had no social cues. But he did, and he would be extremely oblivious to have not noticed Kuroo’s recent advances. Kenma had thought that he could simply ignore them and let them bounce off like ineffective attacks in a game when one has a shield. 

“when and where?” Kenma types and hits send. He reluctantly turns his phone to the camera to show his viewers that he is a streamer of his word. No one can say **kodzuken** doesn’t deliver. 

The chat once again fires up, and Kenma groans. It’s time to log off.

✧ ✧ ✧

The next day, entrenched in the other realm of online video content, _Ballin’ with Bokuto_ ’s very own Bokuto stares at his channel’s dashboard on YouTube. It’s the first time that Bokuto has done this since moving from Tokyo. It’s a good chance to see how his viewers have responded to Bokuto’s new content from Shimoda. 

Being a professional vlogger comes with many perks. Flexible hours and free merchandise paired with the ability to exercise his creativity had kept Bokuto motivated for his channel. But there was a more serious, possibly dangerous fourth aspect. Bokuto feeds on others’ opinions of him, which can take a toll when his job is intrinsically tied to the way he presents himself to others. It had always been this way, before YouTube, before center-stage volleyball. If anything, it had grown as a bigger part of his personality and fueled his hidden insecurities even more as an adult. 

So, it’s really no shock that Bokuto is crestfallen when he sees that on average, his views per video have experienced a slight decline ever since his last video from Tokyo. _What was he doing wrong?_ If anything, he had been doing more than ever, especially since Akaashi had been taking him to interesting spots around Shimoda. They had been to the aquarium, a mountain hike, and a Buddhist temple recently. Sure, it wasn’t his normal content, but at least it was something new, right? 

Bokuto is beginning to spiral. A creeping sadness invades his body. Scout licks his hand, sensing a difference in Bokuto’s mood. Bokuto pats Scout, thanking his furry friend—but this is something Scout cannot and will never completely understand. He picks up his cell to call Kuroo, who is currently at work since it is late morning. Kuroo picks up on the third ring. 

“Kuroo, my channel isn’t doing well.” His voice unexpectedly cracks at the end of his sentence, which he hopes that Kuroo interprets as phone interference. 

There’s a pause on the other end, because Kuroo has surely picked up on Bokuto’s tone, “I’m sure it’s not that bad, Bokuto. Hey—it’s gonna be peak tide hours in a bit, are you feeling okay?” 

Bokuto is silent. _No,_ he automatically thinks, but can’t verbalize. 

“Oh shit… Um, okay. How ‘bout you go across the street and talk to Akaashi about it? I think he’s still at home, because he was out watering his plants pretty late today. I saw him when I was leaving for work today. Okay? It’ll be okay Bokuto, I’m sure of it. Gotta go, see you soon.” There’s a blip because Kuroo has hung up the phone, presumably to talk to a customer that had been patiently waiting for a surfboard rental. 

Bokuto can’t bother Akaashi with his crisis, because Akaashi hasn’t seen this ugly side of him yet. Therefore, he plops on his bed and throws the blanket over his own head, so that not even Scout can see him being like this. Bokuto should know better than isolating himself when he’s sad, because being alone is the worst thing Bokuto can do to himself when he’s in a funk. 

Ten minutes of wallowing later, there’s a light knock on the door. Bokuto throws off the blankets sluggishly and makes his way over to the door. At this moment, he wishes Kuroo was there to get the door. 

“Bokuto-san.”

“Akaashi?” 

“Kuroo called me a few minutes ago and told me that you weren’t feeling well.” _Kuroo._ The world’s biggest meddler. 

“He said that you were likely hiding in your bed. I’m not feeling well either, so I’m at home for today… Do you perhaps want to be unwell together?” The question makes Bokuto heart swell to three times its size, bursting out of the frozen cage it had been entrapped in this morning. 

Akaashi sneezes. It’s then that Bokuto notices Akaashi is hardly anything like his normal self. His silver lenses are smudged, his neat wavy hair uncannily mussed, and he’s wearing Ravenclaw pajama pants. There’s a spare tissue clutched in his left hand. Akaashi would never let himself in public like this normally. Bokuto shakes himself from his former sluggishness and grabs Akaashi’s arm to bring him in his house, realizing that Akaashi is physically sick and unwell. 

“Oh, I was in a bit of a mood earlier. But it is nothing compared to what you’re going through right now.” 

Bokuto drags Akaashi by the hand to his bedroom, sits Akaashi on his bed, and bundles him in a pile of his own blanket—the one he had just been hiding in. Akaashi looks like a stunned caterpillar in a cocoon while Bokuto runs to the kitchen, Scout bounding after him, to make a warm pot of instant ramen for Akaashi. The water is boiling and Bokuto plops in the noodles and soup mix and stirs. For good measure, he adds an egg after turning off the stove. 

Akaashi calls weakly from the bedroom: “Bokuto-san, can I help?” 

“’Kaashi, please stay in my bed. I’m almost done!” He puts some of the broth and noodles into a large mug, after grabbing a thick wooden spoon and some chopsticks. 

Akaashi is laying down on Bokuto’s bed, eyes closed, cheeks flushed. His breathing is pretty shallow. Bokuto gingerly lifts Akaashi up and spoons some broth into his lips. His silver frames fog up from the heat of the soup. Bokuto steadies his hand on the spoon, looking at Akaashi’s lips, the most delicate pair he had ever seen. Usually pressed together in thought, today Bokuto can see them relaxed and pink—perhaps due to his fever. As a result, Akaashi looks a little more spaced out than usual. 

“Feeding me seems to be a recurring theme for you. This is exactly like what happened at the beach.” 

“Keep coming to me when you need me to do this.” Bokuto startles a bit at his own boldness. He reassures himself that Akaashi probably didn’t notice in his sick state. There’s nothing but the sound of Akaashi inhaling ramen noodles. He must be starving. Akaashi swallows and peers up at Bokuto, glasses un-fogging. 

“Bokuto-san, why were you feeling down? A mental ailment is often just as bad as a physical one.”

Bokuto steels a bit and feels the insecurity claw at his chest again. But Bokuto’s internal storms, they ebb and pound at the walls inside him until they wash over the edge. After Akaashi slurps some more noodles, Bokuto decides to tell him. He can’t keep it in. 

“My videos aren’t doing as well since I’ve arrived in Shimoda. About a thousand views less than normal, give or take. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, I—I thought they were more exciting too. And we’ve been doing fun things, and the places you take me to are great, so it’s nothing with you—it must be me.”

Akaashi considers him for a bit. Bokuto thinks, _He thinks I’m lame and overdramatic._ He imagines Akaashi thinking, “Well a thousand view decrease isn’t all so bad,” just as anyone else would. Nobody can really understand Bokuto’s tantrums. Bokuto can’t really either—does he always have to get so upset? 

Still not saying anything, Akaashi leans his head on Bokuto’s shoulder. It’s more comforting than Bokuto could have ever imagined. He’s frozen in place, not wanting to disturb any of this so he can remember it. Akaashi’s waves peek out from under Bokuto’s comforter and tickle his neck, but it’s fine. Scout passes by curiously at the two from the doorway, wondering why Akaashi has taken his rightful place in Bokuto’s bed. 

“Bokuto-san, your viewers aren’t watching for the things you do. They watch for your excitement and for your advice. You’re each of your viewers’ unofficial best friend. It doesn’t matter where you go. At least that’s what I feel when I see you.” Bokuto’s heart thumps, a glimmer of hope shining inside of him. 

“’Kaashi, have you watched my videos?” Bokuto can _feel_ Akaashi still on his shoulder, perhaps shocked that Bokuto had asked him such a question. He hadn’t known that Akaashi had watched his videos. What did Akaashi think of them? It’s a light switch; Bokuto is suddenly invincible, armed with Akaashi’s attention and praise. 

“Oh—uh, um. Yes. I have. A couple with Sugawara, but I watched some on my own, too. Is that okay?” Still unmoving on Bokuto’s chest, Bokuto props Akaashi up next to him so that he can get a better look at Akaashi’s face. Akaashi can’t meet his gaze, so Bokuto lifts up his chin with his finger until Akaashi does. 

“Akaashi, it means the world to me that you’re watching! I’ll win people back in no time. If you like the videos, it must mean other people do, too!” Bokuto receives a quizzical look from Akaashi, like Akaashi is trying to figure out how Bokuto can suddenly swing from the lowest of lows to the top of the world. Scout pants happily, now that Bokuto seems to be his normal self. Bokuto had been afraid to confide in Akaashi, mostly because he didn’t know if Akaashi would be able to understand. In the face of Bokuto’s breakdown, Akaashi had come through for him and even if he didn’t completely figure it out, had made every effort to try to. He could see it in the way Akaashi’s eyes had been lost in thought after everything Bokuto had told him. 

Bokuto wipes at a drop of stray soup on Akaashi’s chin with his thumb, laughing as he feeds more noodles into Akaashi’s parted mouth. Akaashi looks better already. Bokuto feels alright, too. 

“Akaashi, describe what kinds of food you like. I’ll guess and next time I’ll have it ready when you need to be fed again.” 

A shy, noodle-y smile is Bokuto’s reward. How can someone look so cute with a mouth full of food? 

Bokuto realizes that what he wants most right now is for Akaashi to kiss him. There’s something so comforting about Akaashi. He forces the thought out of his mind, not wanting to take advantage of a sick Akaashi, even if said crush is in his bed, looking the most adorable that Bokuto has ever seen him. 

Akaashi launches into a description of his favorite foods, which are almost always crunchy in texture, drizzled in flavorful sauces. Bokuto proffers guesses in between Akaashi’s hints. Akaashi replies “hotter” or “colder” to each of his conjectures to give Bokuto hints. After some time, Bokuto stiffens and clarifies, “WAIT. Do you mean that I’m getting closer to your guesses, or that I should be guessing food that is hotter in temperature?!” Bokuto had been on his tenth guess and was no closer to guessing than he originally had been. 

Akaashi dissolves into a fit of melodic laughter, shaking in Bokuto’s blanket, socked feet kicking out the end. Leave it to Bokuto to ask this kind of question this late in their guessing game. Too busy recovering from his fit of laughter, Akaashi does not answer. Bokuto shakes his head jokingly at the bundle of blankets that is Akaashi Keiji. 

“Ah, whatever ‘Kaashi. You have weird taste.”

“It seems that I do.”

✧ ✧ ✧

“Suga, you outdo yourself every time. I could never write something like this.” 

Oikawa’s head jerks at the sound of a name he hadn’t been able to rid from his head recently. He pivots to see Sugawara sitting across from a man who also has gray hair. In fact, this man looks like a meaner, more intense version of Sugawara, whose split ends are black tipped instead of gray all the way through. The pair are sat at a café table, illuminated by the fairy lights at the storefront. 

He and Daichi are walking home from an especially late volleyball practice, ready to grab a belated dinner in the restaurant street of Shimoda. Daichi follows Oikawa’s gaze, eyes flashing with recognition upon seeing Sugawara. 

“Well, that’s why you have me,” Sugawara beams back at this man, who Oikawa doesn’t like already just from the way Sugawara smiles at him. _Who was he? A cousin? Brother?_ In between the two on the table are two papers, covered with Sugawara’s small script. 

“Dude, I’m hungry. Let’s get a move on.” Daichi coughs, reminding Oikawa that he exists. As a committed man, Daichi had long forgotten the mental agony of the romantic pursuit. Daichi wouldn’t understand, so Oikawa pulls him aside before whispering in his ear. 

“Go up ahead, I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Order for me.” Daichi hesitantly obliges to Oikawa’s order, patting Oikawa on the back as a wordless way of encouraging him to not mess anything up with Sugawara. Oikawa promptly leans against a nearby tree, pretending to check his phone while he waits for Sugawara to finish whatever business he has with this man. _An annoying man_ , who gets to see Sugawara’s smile so easily. 

“I’d love to stay Semi, but I’m afraid I have to get going. Akaashi is sick, so I’m going to stop by to drop off some food, and then I have to help my parents out.” 

“Relax Suga, you don’t need to explain anything to me. Take care.” The gray-haired man, Semi, pulls his hand out of his pocket to wave a languid goodbye to his companion. Semi carefully picks up Sugawara’s papers and puts them into his pocket afterward. 

Sugawara politely excuses himself and stands up, taking his large canvas backpack and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way over to the exit, which is next to a tree with a suspicious, Oikawa-shaped shadow. 

Oikawa looks up from his phone, stopping Sugawara before he can pass without noticing him. 

“Hey.” 

Sugawara looks toward Oikawa. It’s dark, so Sugawara doesn’t recognize him right away. Oikawa, however, would be able to spot Sugawara from a mile away. 

Oikawa has to catch his breath, forgetting how unnaturally attractive Sugawara is. Despite the evening darkness, Sugawara’s bangs are self-illuminating. They’re light and airy, and some of them fall near his eyes, kissing his gray eyelashes when he blinks. And the _mole_. Oikawa had never known he could be enchanted by a spot on someone’s face. It was going to be the death of him. With every glance, eye-smile, and blink, the mole bounced. It still didn’t take away from his tempting, mischievous eyes. 

Oikawa had been called “pretty boy” before by many, but these people had not met Sugawara. What Oikawa was enchanted by the most was Sugawara’s genuine smile, the one he had seen Sugawara wearing on the surfboard as he was coasting the waves. He hadn’t forgotten it since. 

Except Sugawara would never smile for him like that. Right now, his face was a mixture of surprise and displeasure. _What was he, chopped liver?_ Oikawa was never nervous, but sometimes Sugawara made him uneasy in a way that made him feel like he was in a situation that he had never been in before. Uncharted territory. 

“It’s you.” Oikawa shrugs, gesturing at his own body to confirm that it is indeed, Oikawa Tooru in the flesh. 

Oikawa clears his throat, “I won’t take long, you seem busy.” 

“I am. Walk along with me then.” _Yes!_ A small victory, but it was still a step in the right direction. Oikawa is relieved to see they are still headed in the same vicinity as the restaurant he is supposed to meet Daichi at. Sugawara walks at a sprightly pace, as if he weighs nothing in the world—despite the pack of goodies on his back. 

Oikawa asks what’s on the forefront of his mind: “Who were you talking to?”

“None of your business, really. But if you must know, I ghost-write lyrics. That was my friend Semi, who I write lyrics for sometimes.” Semi. _Semi Eita_ , famous rock-star? No wonder Semi had looked familiar. Was Sugawara a secret star songwriter, basking in the millions? Well, Oikawa learned something new every day. Sugawara didn’t seem like the brooding author type as suggested by his bookstore occupation, but elegant part-time lyricist seemed to fit him perfectly. Oikawa wonders what kinds of songs Sugawara would like to write on his own, not for others. 

“That’s pretty cool. Sounds like a nice side hustle.” 

“I do it for free,” Oikawa gasps, not understanding why Sugawara would miss out on such a big opportunity. Sugawara seems unfazed to this reaction. “Started a long time ago, it’s not a big deal.”

Oikawa is reminded of the laundry list of tasks that Sugawara had listed to his friend Semi as a reason to leave. This isn’t really his business either, but he figures he’s already stuck his head in too far: “Just like you take care of everyone else? For free? Not a big deal?” 

“Akaashi is sick. He needs me. Any good friend would do that.” There’s a note of defensiveness in Sugawara’s voice. That last question may have been a mistake. Anyone can see how Sugawara is a fearless friend. Anyone would be lucky to have Sugawara on their side. Oikawa had first noticed that at the beach. Sugawara had packed all the day’s food for his friends, while the rest had not brought anything in particular. 

Oikawa figures that Sugawara must be like that at the bookstore with Akaashi, taking on as many tasks as he can to help Akaashi. 

“Does that mean you were at the store working by yourself today?” Oikawa’s sudden realization must have been correct, because he’s met with a strange silence from Sugawara. Sugawara had appeared a little more tired than usual, even if he had tried to cover it up with smiles and a brave face for everybody else. Around Oikawa, Sugawara didn’t put up this front. _Probably because he doesn’t care what I think._ Earlier, Oikawa had taken this as Sugawara’s general disgust for him, but maybe it was aggravated by an especially tiring day. 

“Why don’t you let anyone help you? His roommate—K… Kenma, right?—is probably already taking care of him. You’ve done enough.” 

“That’s not for you to say. I can do things myself.” 

“And others can’t?” Again, Oikawa has asked a question that Sugawara doesn’t want to answer. This is fine, since the walk seems to be over, anyways. Sugawara has stopped in front of the local post office, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s ready to say an awkward goodbye. Oikawa isn’t, but Oikawa’s desires don’t really seem to pan out when it comes to Sugawara. 

Sugawara gestures to the post-office, “I have to go in and pick up something for my parents before I head to Akaashi’s.” 

“Alright. But next time, fit me into your busy schedule, Suga.” Oikawa savors the taste of the name that he so rarely gets to say. 

“Like I said, maybe in another world, where your name is Daichi.” 

Sugawara holds out a closed palm. Oikawa is delighted. Will they get to hold hands? Oikawa brightens up at the prospect, ego sprouting mile-a-minute for this sudden change in atmosphere. Sugawara opens his palm to release a fluttering piece of paper into Oikawa’s own hand. 

His hopes are stamped, crushed, obliterated. 

Sugawara seems rejuvenated and his voice clearly rings out, “Give this to Daichi-san when you can, you’re on your way to see him, right?” 

Oikawa looks at his palm to see a paper with Sugawara’s handwriting and his phone number with a daring “Call me!” underneath it. It’s a cute gesture, one comprised of small and painstaking script, one that is entirely not for him. 

“Don’t make me do this. I could have just given him your number!”

“You know you wouldn’t have!” Sugawara chides playfully. He waves over his back as he heads into the post office. A final goodbye for the night. 

Oikawa scowls into the ground. He’d have to try and talk to Sugawara some other time. Oikawa knows that was _definitely_ not his A-game—he’d practically nagged Sugawara for not taking care of himself first. If anything, Sugawara liked him even less than before. He was in the negative numbers now. He’d lost this set. But he’d get the next one. 

When he finally steps foot into the restaurant that Daichi and him had agreed upon, Daichi knows not to prod when he sees Oikawa’s face. Oikawa shoves his food into his mouth, fuming. His composure is out the window. Rice is falling out of the corner of his mouth and a purple, scary aura seeps from his pores.

It’d be a long dinner.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing the bro scenes (any that involve Ku-bro-o, Bro-kuto, Daichi - I can't think of a pun for this, and Bro-ikawa talking to each other). Scout is unofficially a bro. This is a very dialogue-heavy/relationship-building chapter. Hopefully you stay with me through it!


	5. Book Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The setter squad faces their worst fear: their feelings. Two chapter update because I got way too excited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe it took like a month for me to realize I didn’t put any spoiler warnings here but better late than never:
> 
> SPOILER WARNINGS for The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. Just some quotes and one plot point. But if you haven’t read it you should!!!! Akaashi’s recommendation :-)

The back room of _The Quill_ has a small, white wooden sign hanging on its door, reading, “Book Club.” It was made and decorated by Sugawara, who had gifted it to Akaashi for his first birthday following the opening of the store. 

Inside, Akaashi Keiji is sitting at one of the chairs, thumbing through his copy of _The Kite Runner_ , which has a comical amount of color-coded sticky tabs poking out of the pages. Blue is for major plot point, pink is for an introduction of a new character, and yellow is for anything else which Akaashi finds worthy of discussion. On each yellow sticky note, there are exclamation points. Anything above three exclamation points means that Akaashi should definitely touch upon it within the hour. Today was the final discussion for _The Kite Runner_ , and he could not wait for his group of regulars to straggle in through the door at 5:30pm. This had been a story of heavy material and a real setting, though one that his readers had never been in before. 

Book club, much like his front-yard garden, is another aspect of Akaashi’s life that is entirely his own. He still remembers his first time hosting book club, in which he had gone on an unexpected rant about one of the characters and their lack of development in the story, interrupting himself midway when he realized that he had been speaking more than he normally does in any given conversation. Embarrassed, he had shut up and stared down at the book in his lap to regain his composure. He wasn’t used to losing himself like that, but it was something he had felt strongly about. 

Except Akaashi wasn’t met with awkward silence. Two of the readers in attendance had jumped up from their chairs at the same time, exclaiming agreement with Akaashi’s point of view. The rest of that hour had been a full-blown critique of that very character, all due to Akaashi’s initial rambling. It was one of the first times that Akaashi’s book-centered dialogues had been greeted with anything other than a polite smile or a confused, glassy-eyed look. He had found his people. 

After that, Akaashi’s book club had been a saving grace. He had gotten better at hosting, finding that he often enjoyed taking the backseat after offering up points of discussion, because Shimoda’s locals were a diverse group of varying literary tastes. Whereas Akaashi brings a very analytical and technical view to whatever he reads, the book club members supply the emotions and reactions that Akaashi loves to hear, especially to know how readers react to certain types of writing. The book club was as much for him as it was for his readers. 

Six readers are currently in the room at 5:25pm. Akaashi decides to wait a little bit, since he knows that a lot of his attendees are either getting off of work or commuting from the nearby college. Sugawara stops by, dropping off a lemon merengue pie that he has baked yesterday. The readers in the room all politely clap and give him smiles—this is an established weekly ritual—sometimes Akaashi wonders if people are just there for Sugawara’s baking. 

At 5:30pm sharp, there are nine readers in the room, and Akaashi softly clears his throat, ready to get started. Just as he is about to speak, some heavy footsteps interrupt him. Bokuto is in the doorway, carrying a book. It looks tiny in his big hands. It takes a full ten seconds for Akaashi to process that Bokuto is here for book club, and in that time Bokuto has found a seat next to the jovial Mr. Takeda, who smiles at the book club newcomer. 

“Well—it is time to start.” 

To distract his mind from wondering why Bokuto is sitting in his book club in the first place, he focuses on adhering to his normal itinerary for hosting: first, they will discuss any recent plot points that his readers want to bring up, or anything they were perhaps confused on and wanted clarification on. Akaashi makes a point to do this every book club, because he wants to make sure that everyone is on the same page. The main goal of his book club is to be inclusive, because reading is for anybody. That should be enough to justify why Bokuto is here, right? 

As the timid undergrad who Sugawara had wolf-whistled at a month ago raises his hand, Akaashi does his best to focus on his question. While listening, Akaashi finds himself settling back into his usual rhythm, and the readers all engage in a thoughtful back-and-forth as they discuss the final chapter of the book—which include Amir’s reflections on Hassan, his dead best friend from childhood. Akaashi eyes Bokuto, noticing how Bokuto is focused on each member when they speak, nodding along every second. The other members notice this too, and they smile back in appreciation for his engagement. 

The discussion takes its natural course, shifting to a final reflection on the characters—who Mr. Takeda has decided represent a spectrum of good to evil. There’s Hassan, who the members seem to agree is the representation of ultimate goodness—Amir, the morally ambiguous protagonist—and Assef, the pure evil. Akaashi brings up Baba, Amir’s father, to ask his readers for their thoughts on Baba. There’s mixed sentiment on whether he’s a good person, because he’s not that great of a father. In any case, the readers are having fun today with this lively discussion. Bokuto still hasn’t said anything, but he’s as much of an active listener as possible.

Akaashi decides he wants to invite Bokuto to participate, so he comes up with a low-stress question, one that might be less intimidating to a first-time attendee to the book club. It’s one of his favorite questions to ask: 

“What is a quote that resonated with you?” 

He refrains from asking what their _favorite_ quote was, because a “favorite” anything bestows too much pressure on a choice, too much power on a single decision. It makes it much more important and more permanent. 

There’s the soothing sound of pages flipping, as each book club member thumbs through their copy to look for a particular highlight, marking, dog-ear, bookmark, or sticky-note. 

Mrs. Yamada goes first. She’s a small, seventy-year-old woman wearing a pink cardigan who’s quavering voice recites, “ _The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts. Such grace, such dignity, such a tragedy._ ” The line is a reference to a metaphor for Hassan and Amir. Though Mrs. Yamada is done speaking, the lasting effect of the beautiful words hangs in the air. 

The readers nod. The shy undergraduate lifts his hand and continues when Akaashi nods back at him. 

“ _That’s the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think that everyone else does too._ ” Akaashi looks at Bokuto—Bokuto definitely means everything he says, all the time. Hopefully no one would take advantage of him for that, ever. It’s one of Akaashi’s favorite things about him. 

Mr. Takeda chimes in, “ _I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night._ ” Other readers agree, lost in thought. Maybe they’re thinking of their own guilt, their own forgiveness for irreversible mistakes made in the past. 

The reflective atmosphere is shooed away by the sound of Bokuto’s voice. “Mr. Takeda, I liked that one too!” Mr. Takeda smiles back at the spirited man sitting next to him. 

Bokuto looks at Akaashi, and Akaashi nods in encouragement, “What about you, Bokuto?”

“Ah well, I think this is a story about friendship, about how true friendships can overcome any sort of terrible mistake, because true friends forgive. My favorite line is ‘There is a way to be good again,’ because I believe that, too. There’s always a way to do the right thing.” The readers hum their agreements. There are warm gazes all around, welcoming Bokuto after his first verbal contribution. Even if he isn’t the most polished, it doesn’t matter, because Bokuto understands the message. One storyteller knows another. 

“‘Kaashi, your turn!” All ten pairs of eyes are on Akaashi. It’s rare that Akaashi’s opinion is directly requested at book club, since Akaashi is usually the one asking the questions. Unlike the many questions Bokuto asks, Akaashi knows the answer to this one. It’s written in his heart. 

“Ah—mine is a bit cliché, the one that the book is most known for. ‘ _For you, a thousand times over._ ’” 

There’s no better way to express Hassan’s undying friendship, undying love for his best friend, than through his own words. Akaashi’s eyes linger at the sticky note that has four exclamation points, which he knows lies next to the first time Hassan says it to Amir. He looks up to see Bokuto and the rest of his readers looking right at him. Sometimes the best words are the simplest.

✧ ✧ ✧

“Suga, Bokuto was at book club today.”

Akaashi and Sugawara are locking up the front door to _The Quill_ , after book club has ended and they had done their final tasks for the day. Bokuto had given him an enthusiastic wave on his way out of the door and a _Thanks ‘Kaashi, that was fun!_

Like always, Akaashi walks Sugawara to his car in the back. Thankfully, the tire replacement hadn’t taken that long. Sugawara leans against the door of his car, knowing Akaashi still wants to talk a bit. Arms crossed, keys swinging from an orange and black lanyard, Sugawara looks at Akaashi, and confirms his statement. 

“Mhm? I saw him come in and leave.” 

Sugawara is frustrating at times. Even when Sugawara knows what Akaashi is implying, Sugawara likes to make Akaashi come right out and say it. It’s his way of making Akaashi process his own feelings, which Akaashi doesn’t seem to do so well by himself, inside his head. Akaashi is exceedingly exceptional at analyzing others, whether book characters or those around him, but not so much when it comes to himself. 

“Isn’t that—isn’t that _weird_?” 

Sugawara gives him a playful swat on the shoulder. “Akaashi, he just wants to know more about you. Why are you freaking out?” It’s easy for Sugawara to say, since Sugawara is used to people wanting to get to know to him. Sugawara is popular and sociable. The more nervous, anxious customers often approach Sugawara first. Only those who frequent the store are equally comfortable with both Akaashi and Sugawara. 

“I’m not interesting. What is there to know?” Akaashi isn’t fishing for compliments here, he’s just genuinely confused. The last time he considered himself interesting, was… Well, he didn’t really remember. 

“Last week during book club, he came in to say hi on his walk with Scout. I told him you were busy with book club, and he wanted to know more. So, I gave him my copy of the book. He wanted to surprise you. I’m surprised he kept it a secret this whole time. He doesn’t look like a good secret-keeper.”

Again, Akaashi tries to wrap his head around Bokuto Koutarou spending his evenings reading through _The Kite Runner_ , not once—but twice. He could have been editing videos, watching a movie with Kuroo, or—whatever Bokuto did for fun. He was fairly certain reading had not been one of those things. 

“What? Why would he do that?” He knew many facts about Bokuto, stacking up by the dozen after the few weeks he had been here. _He always double knots his shoes. His favorite color seems to be blue. He is high-spirited, but can easily fall into sad spells. He loves all holidays._ None of them explained this. 

Sugawara shakes his head. He unlocks his yellow car with a press of his key and hops in the car. The engine starts revving. Sugawara rolls down the driver’s side window and hangs his arm up against the opening of the window. 

“Akaashi, I love you. You’re the most book smart person I know. That isn’t a compliment here. You will figure it out, though.” 

Akaashi watches Sugawara back out of his parking spot. Akaashi had become a good face-reader over the years, especially for his childhood friend. This time, it seemed to say, “It’s not my place to tell a secret that’s not mine.”

✧ ✧ ✧

“What do you think?” Kuroo is obviously proud of himself, straightening up and grinning at Kenma. The eye that Kenma can see, the one not obscured by Kuroo’s ridiculous bedhead bangs, glints with delight.

“A… cat café?” 

Kenma looks up at the pink and purple sign, decorated with paw prints and whiskers. Having lived in Shimoda for a couple years, he’d passed by this place on occasion when he went out to dinner with Sugawara and Akaashi on weekends, but he had never given it a second thought. He never would have guessed Kuroo to pick this place for his requested date. 

Through the glass windows, he can see the outline of cat towers and play structures. One black cat faces them through the window and puts a paw on the glass, standing on its hind legs to get a better look at Kuroo and Kenma. 

“You don’t like cats? I thought you did—your headphones that you wear.” So that was the reason. 

“Oh… Those are mostly for the sound quality.” Kenma’s one unfailing trait is that he’s honest. When he’s more self-conscious, he is more careful about it. This is not one of those times. He can see Kuroo deflate like a balloon. That reaction was strangely reminiscent of the way Bokuto would respond. Kenma knows Kuroo is willing to take him somewhere else, but that really isn’t necessary. 

“But—I don’t mind them.” 

Upon Kenma’s expression of consent, the two head inside. There’s a jingle at the door as they enter, and a few mewls in response. There’s a lot more people inside than Kenma would have anticipated. Almost every table is full, and there’s a line to pay at the cashier. It’s a lot noisier, too, with the cats meowing and customers cooing. 

Kuroo and Kenma sit at a table. A part-timer takes their drink orders while preemptively placing pawprint-shaped napkins on their tables. Kenma gets a hot chocolate, iced coffee for Kuroo. No words pass between them as they wait for their drinks to come. Kenma is used to being in awkward situations, because he is never one to fill awkward silence for the sake of filling it. Kuroo doesn’t seem to mind. 

Unsurprisingly, Kuroo makes the first attempt, “Have you done this before?” 

“This is my first date. There are no precedents for me here.” Kenma isn’t embarrassed by his lack of experience, but it feels strange to admit it. 

Kuroo chuckles, “I meant going to a cat café.” Kenma’s nose wrinkles, a little stumped at having revealed something like that by answering the wrong question. He’s not too bothered though, since it’s true. Kuroo continues, “But I guess, no **kodzuken** playthroughs for dating sims either?” 

“No. Gross.” 

“Not even one?”

“Do you know what no means?”

Kuroo laughs at their banter. Kenma hasn’t purposely tried to be funny, but Kuroo tends to laugh at a lot of things Kenma does. Kenma must be more amusing than he thinks. When Kuroo’s laughter quiets, the bustle of everyone around them fills Kenma’s ears. There’s a lot of people around. Why hadn’t he just stayed home? Kenma had gone from being alone, content in his room, to a crowded cat café with the persistent neighbor from across the street. Why did people always feel the need to be around other people, in crowded places?

Kuroo seems to notice something while staring at Kenma. He then stands up from his chair and nods his head toward the back of the café. The back of the café has a small rug with a couple of throw pillows, presumably where people can sit on the floor to pet the cats. Kenma has to look up at Kuroo since he’s still sitting down. 

“Let’s move.”

They walk to the back of the café, which is much quieter. There are less people around, and the music of the café becomes mere hums since the speakers are near the tables in the front. Kenma settles down on a spot of the rug next to Kuroo, feeling much more at ease than at the table. He cradles his hot chocolate cup in his lap and takes a sip, finally able to enjoy it in peace. 

Kenma musters out a thanks. He knows he’s not the most dynamic person to be around. He can’t bring himself to meet Kuroo’s intense gaze right now, especially because they’re much closer in height when they’re sitting down like this. 

“It’s not that I don’t like people. I just don’t feel the need to be around them all the time.” 

“That’s fine. I understand. We have more in common than you think.” Kenma contemplates Kuroo’s reply for a second. Kuroo is interesting. 

Kuroo is currently holding out his hand to the same black cat that Kenma had seen in the window before coming in. The collar around the neck bears a small metal circle with the name “Kiki” engraved on it. The black cat stares suspiciously at Kuroo but doesn’t back away. Kiki’s tail flicks side to side. She paws a tentative step forward to Kuroo’s hand. 

Kuroo turns to Kenma as he says, “You’re supposed to let them get used to you, right?” 

Kenma notices a plastic stick with a string tied at one end on the rug next to him. The string is attached to a bright blue feather with a grass-colored bead. He sets down his hot chocolate and picks the cat toy up. Kiki looks over at Kenma now, pupils dilating at the sight of the toy. Kenma indulges Kiki with a small flick of the toy, to which she responds by crouching, ready to pounce. Kuroo’s hand is long forgotten. Kiki likes games. A kindred spirit. 

“Ah, no fair! I was just about to make a friend.” 

Kuroo’s face doesn’t match his jealous words. He curiously observes Kenma and Kiki play together. Kiki gives the feather a few frisky swats, but then she seems to tire of the game, since she’s probably very familiar with this little stick. She meows authoritatively at Kenma, then proceeds to crawl into his lap and rest her head on his leg. Kenma makes no movement as this happens, staring at Kuroo for help. Kiki is very dense for a cat and weighs more than is comfortable. 

“It seems this is your fate now. You can’t move.” Kuroo reaches over and strokes the top of Kiki’s head, between her ears. Kiki purrs. The tiny rumble shakes Kenma’s leg. He doesn’t know why, but Kenma brings his own hand and pets Kiki along her back. Kiki isn’t so bad. 

Kuroo and Kenma continue to pet Kiki in silence. After a while, Kiki begins to warm up to Kuroo. No one’s able to resist Kuroo’s chin scratches—Kiki’s blissfully closed eyes betray her. She falls asleep in Kenma’s lap. Kenma’s leg is asleep now, yet the uncomfortable pinpricks are overtaken by the warmth of Kiki’s small body. Making a cat feel comfortable is no small feat. 

Kenma stares at Kiki’s tiny ears and murmurs, “Now we’re both her friends.” Kuroo grins at the statement. Kenma isn’t bothered by it one bit.

✧ ✧ ✧

Sugawara is dusting the bookcase shelves of _The Quill_. Dusting is a very overlooked chore, one that is absolutely necessary in a bookstore. Paper fibers and hardcover cloth covers can create piles of dust if left unattended. That, and Sugawara’s sneezy dust allergies would flare up if he didn’t take care of dusting. Equipped with his duster, a comical pair of chemistry lab goggles he’s saved from university, and a disposable surgical mask, Sugawara is a sight to behold on dusting days.

Creative Nonfiction. Sci-Fi. Historical. Manga. Psychology & Self-Help. Tourism. Children’s Books. Mystery & Thriller. Fantasy. Sugawara’s on a roll, making his way through each of the shelves, top to bottom, starting from the front of the store working his way towards the back. He always saves dusting the reading nook for last, since it begs the most attention, chair crevices and desk lamp requiring more effort to dust than the flat shelves. 

Romance. _Hm, that’s weird._ It looks like several books have been taken from romance section, since the some slots are empty on some shelves, and on others book spines are slightly leaning, lacking the tension of a full book shelf. Not thinking too much of it, Sugawara finishes dusting the Romance section, the last one, and heads to the reading nook. 

“Akaashi?” 

Akaashi had not been in the back storeroom. Here he was, sitting at the reading nook’s table. He hadn’t even looked up, staring at an open book, several others also open, strewn haphazardly around him. Tracing his finger over the lines he’s reading, Akaashi’s mouth makes silent movements as he skims the pages. This couldn’t be good. 

Sugawara takes off his goggles and mask. Cleaning would have to wait. 

“Akaashi, what is going on?” Akaashi finally looks up. His silver-rimmed glasses have slid down in his reading frenzy, teetering precariously on the tip of his nose. Akaashi pushes them up with his hand. 

Sugawara notices the cover of one of the books. _Pride and Prejudice_. Akaashi closes the current one he’s reading after gently slapping a sticky note on one of the pages. _Ten Years That I Loved You the Most_. Sugawara flips over the book closest to him on Akaashi’s table. _The Song of Achilles._ There are several more near Akaashi’s elbow, stacked neatly. He hasn’t gotten to them yet. 

“Ah, I’ve found the mastermind behind The Romance Robbery.” From the looks of it, Akaashi had been here the whole morning, thumbing through the pages and searching for something. He hasn’t found it yet. 

“Suga, each love story. What do they have in common?” 

“Hm… Besides someone falling in love or out of love, I’m not sure that there’s a right answer.” 

“I seem to draw the same conclusion.”

Akaashi points his index finger at _Pride and Prejudice_. “Enemies to lovers, two polar opposite personalities that become inextricably linked, complex family connections. Societal scandal and problems with money.” Then his eyes track sideways and he looks at _Ten Years That I Loved You the Most_. “High school sweethearts. An adultery. A new love, and an old one at the same time. Sickness and tragedy, leading to loving someone even more when they’re gone. Absolutely devastating.” Akaashi looks a little unhinged at this point, descriptions slipping out of his mouth in disjointed sentences, half-formed thoughts that he has collected while skimming. He places a hand on _The Song of Achilles._ “Lovers bound, separated, and reunited by the Fates themselves. A mythological love that isn’t mentioned in our history books. One that persists forever.” 

“Quite the selection you’ve got there, Akaashi.” Sugawara knows that Akaashi turns to the world of books for answers. 

“Does every love need to be so _heavy?_ ” 

“It’s all relative. I’m sure Patroclus and Achilles think Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth had it easy. Dealing with human in-laws is easier when they’re not a bloodthirsty sea nymph or Greek god. But it’s not fair to compare them like that. Research for your ‘mistress’?” Sugawara asks a question that he knows the answer to. Sugawara has a feeling he knows what this is about. 

“No. Well—in a roundabout way, yes. But mostly no.” 

Sugawara sees Akaashi fiddling with his hands, because this is obviously causing him a lot of stress. He had turned to the books for answers, and the books had not been similar enough to his situation for any enlightenment. He continues, shifting in his seat as he speaks, “Everything with Bokuto-san feels easy. Effortless. I have notes, _observations_ filed away about him from our time together. It’s nothing like anything I read. We’re not written in the stars, nothing is tearing us apart, nor is one of us terminally ill…” 

“Then you’re _lucky._ This is your own romance, Akaashi. Not someone else’s. Easy doesn’t mean not serious. Do you think you’re just a plot point? Trust feelings, not your notes. As comprehensive and thorough as they may be—you absolute dork. This isn’t a character study of you and Bokuto, it’s your life—if you have a shot at easy, perfect love, you can’t let it slip.” Sugawara pauses to catch his breath, feeling some guilt for letting loose on Akaashi in that way. Though Sugawara hates doing this, Akaashi occasionally needs tough love to set him straight. 

To make some amends, Sugawara recalls a piece Akaashi had written a long time ago. It was the first piece of writing that Akaashi had ever shown to Sugawara. “You know, you write best from your own experience. I’d give my left foot to read that sentimental piece you wrote on your high school heartbreak for the first time again.” Highschool Akaashi had handed his precious journal over to Sugawara, arms outstretched, abashedly requesting grammar proofreading on his first memoir-esque piece. Sugawara had never told him this, but Akaashi could write alluring, raw narratives even when he wasn’t too focused on getting everything perfect. 

Akaashi smiles at the memory, but dons an overly solemn face to ask, “Why not your right foot?”

“I still need that one to kick ass. I’d kick yours right now to snap out of it, but I think you get it now.” 

The false serious face is gone, taken over by a furtive twinkle in his eyes. “Thanks, Suga. You’re an above-average work buddy.”

“Don’t you ever forget it!” 

“Hey, um—what will you do about Oikawa-kun?” Akaashi quiets at the end of his question, likely afraid of angering Sugawara. Akaashi doesn’t normally pry into Sugawara’s life unless Sugawara tells him something first, so this is a first. Sugawara puts on his cleaning goggles and starts to loop his mask over his ears. He would like to wrap up this conversation, as soon as possible. 

“Probably nothing.” Under other circumstances, Akaashi would have ended it there. However, Akaashi is holding his breath, getting ready to say something else. Sugawara simply starts to dust around Akaashi’s desk and decides to focus his efforts on the windowsill next to where Akaashi is seated. 

“Forgive me for overstepping, Sugawara-san.” _Great._ Akaashi always uses honorifics when he’s about to say something that will make Sugawara mad. “His pursuit seems more serious than you seem to think from what you tell me. Maybe makings for bona fide enemies to lovers.” A sly smile forms on Akaashi’s face. That’s enough to get Sugawara to look up from his dusting. 

“Akaashi, you did not just say that. He’s impressively more annoying than anyone I’ve ever met.” Sugawara tries his best to send an intimidating glare through his cleaning goggles. Sugawara Koushi, feathery duster in hand, is armed, but not dangerous in the least. This only incites a laugh from Akaashi. 

“Then, he must stand out from all the others.” 

“Akaashi Keiji, shelve those books right now or you’re locking up tonight yourself.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Kenma and Akaashi poke at their broccoli and shrimp.

Both of their minds are not at the kitchen table, enjoying the meal, even though Kenma has really outperformed with the sweet sauce. Akaashi catches himself boring a hole into the wall behind Kenma’s head, still repeatedly playing over Sugawara’s advice to him. He needs to get out of his own head. Reaching for his water glass, he notices Kenma staring through his own plate. 

There’s some short, black hair on Kenma’s favorite red hoodie. 

“Kenma, there’s a lot of hair on your hoodie.”

“Oh?” 

Kenma stares down at his own hoodie and picks off a strand of hair on his sleeve so that it won’t fall into his food. There’s still a lot more hair on the pocket and sleeves, but picking all of it off will take some time. It’d be easier with a lint roller. Akaashi wonders if Kenma will tell him about the hair, since Kenma rarely goes outside unless if it’s to buy groceries or to walk to the mall to grab a game. 

“Kuroo and I went to a cat café today.” Surprising. How had that happened? 

“How was it?” If Akaashi shows too much interest, Kenma will be uncomfortable and will be less inclined to talk. 

Kenma wrinkles his nose. He considers for a moment but gives up: “I don’t know. It wasn’t the worst thing ever.”

“It’s rare that you feel that way around strangers.” The first time Sugawara and Kenma had met, Kenma had turned and run into their dorm room to avoid Sugawara’s classic bear hug. The next time around, Akaashi had advised Sugawara to pretend that the two had already been well-acquainted. That was the best way to approach Kenma, with no special attention. Kuroo must be doing something right if he had gotten Kenma out of the house, performed a miracle if Kenma had not regretted his time out. 

“At first, I did, but then it was just us two. And it got better.” 

Akaashi is stumped, wondering how someone who moved across the street about a month ago could have so quickly gotten accustomed to Kenma and his preferences. Akaashi, though observant and considerate as he was, had taken a while to be able to know what Kenma was comfortable with. A special person who can learn so quickly might be a good friend to Kenma in the future. 

The sweet sauce was really good. Akaashi takes his time with each bite. Perhaps it would be beneficial for Kenma to keep Kuroo around. For the second time today, Akaashi feels himself overstepping a boundary. But this is something friends do, right? 

From firsthand experience, Akaashi knows that learning to read Kenma can be very difficult, so he decides to help Kuroo out. “Next time, why don’t you choose the time and place? Something you are comfortable with. He can’t keep guessing.” 

“…Okay.” 

Kenma gets up to clear his plate. Akaashi is stunned at the idea that Kenma is willing to have a second date with Kuroo. There are still many things he has yet to learn about Kozume Kenma, Akaashi realizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiki is my not-so-subtle symbol for Kenma himself (named after Kiki's Delivery Service's Kiki--listen, I know the cat is named Jiji, but Kiki starts with a K like Kenma does--I don't make a lot of sense LOL)!


	6. Ballroom Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold, my favorite chapter so far. Also, I have absolutely no knowledge of ballroom dancing so this is entirely inaccurate. HAHA. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy a small tidbit of Akaashi freaking out in addition to a lot of background on Oikawa Tooru. I reference him as Tooru in this chapter because it felt right. Sorry for confusing anybody.

_Wham!_

Akaashi flinches upon hearing the loud sound of Bokuto’s spiked volleyball imprint on the court floor. He’s watching from the glass door. Kuroo had given him the directions to Bokuto’s favorite volleyball gym. He figured he’d surprise Bokuto back after last book club. 

Outside looking in, the volleyball court is a shiny, bright place. It’s almost blinding. Next to Bokuto, he sees a shorter, orange-haired player next to him. The orange-haired man is a fireball, orbiting Bokuto as Bokuto speaks to him. Though he’s smaller, he is just as powerful. Bokuto sets him a ball, and the shorter spiker successfully bats it into the ground before Akaashi can even blink. 

Akaashi is standing outside the door, convincing himself to open the door and go in. 

Before he can, the orange-haired man sees Akaashi standing at the door. _No, no, no, no, please don’t—_ Too late, he tugs at Bokuto’s shirt. Bokuto swivels his head to see Akaashi. 

“Hey ‘Kaashi! Come join us!” What had Akaashi been worried for? Bokuto doesn’t even question why Akaashi is here. Instead, he waves at Akaashi again, as if to remind him that his legs indeed do exist, and he should use them to walk over. 

“Uh, I don’t know how to play.” The sheepish admission comes as Akaashi adjusts his glasses, not really sure if he can step up to the task. 

“It’s no problem, Hinata and I can teach you. Hinata, this is Akaashi. ‘Kaashi, this is my new friend Hinata. He’s my biggest fan! He recognized me while I was working out today, and he told me that he watches my videos. Isn’t that great?” Bokuto picks up new friends left and right.

Hinata can barely contain his own excitement, staring up at his YouTube idol, “Been subscribed since three years ago!” He flashes a thumbs up and a blinding smile at Akaashi. They are truly two of the same feather. 

“Yes, that’s very nice. Great to meet you, Hinata-kun.” Hinata beams and shakes Akaashi’s hand so enthusiastically. 

“You too, Akaashi! Can you set for us? It’s really simple. You just got the get the ball up high, about six inches from the net.” Hinata makes it sound easy and demonstrates for him. With a flick of the wrists, the ball is soaring in the air. Akaashi’s eyes burn a bit as he stares at the ball, because the harsh ceiling lights shine back from this angle. 

“I can try.” 

After a few failed attempts—once where the ball hit the net, the other where he had timed it completely late, and another in which he had narrowly missed hitting Hinata’s head—Akaashi is starting to get the hang of it. 

“Hinata-kun, I apologize for almost hitting you.”

“No worries, I’m _very_ used to getting hit in the face.” Hinata says this with a strange relish, which scares Akaashi. 

On his next set, this time to Bokuto, the feeling of the ball leaving his fingertips is more satisfying than previously. The swish of the ball is an addicting sound. The ball makes an arc in the air, catching the light, before it descends and before he knows it—Bokuto is flying through the air, assaulting the ball with his all of his manpower. 

“Whoa, you guys looked like a professional setter-spiker pair!” Hinata leaps up from where he had been standing, as ball-boy for Bokuto’s spikes. It was a job Akaashi didn’t envy, especially after experiencing how powerful Bokuto’s spikes were up close. 

Akaashi blushes at the innocuous comment. Recently, anything that loops him in with Bokuto flushes his ears. It’s completely irrational and completely unnecessary. But try telling that to his body, which never listens as of late. _Does Bokuto-san think we’re a good pair?_ , Akaashi can’t stop himself from thinking. 

Bokuto laughs his hearty laugh as he mops off some sweat with a fresh towel.

“Akaashi, you hear that? You’re my setter from now on.” 

Well, that was that.

✧ ✧ ✧

Oikawa Tooru whistles as he walks through the door of Mulberry Old Folks’ Home.

He’s here to visit his grandmother on a rare day off from practice. His grandfather had passed away ten years ago, due to liver cancer. Tooru’s parents are very busy and often traveling. It would be lonely for his grandmother, so she had voluntarily decided to move into Mulberry after her spouse had passed away, deciding she wouldn’t want to spend the rest of her life in a house that reminded her of the absence of her husband. Too much empty space.

Shimoda isn’t the ideal place for an old folks’ home, the breeze from the ocean can be harrowingly chilly on the bones of the elderly in the winter. However, Shimoda is his grandmother’s hometown. No one would dare fight her request to live in the place of her childhood. Tooru dutifully visits his grandmother whenever he has the chance. Recently, he has come less frequently, much against his will. The current volleyball season had been busy, since there were a bunch of new recruits and his team had been doing much better. 

The front desk aide nods at Tooru as he signs in on the check-in paper. _Oikawa Tooru_. His inked name looks funny on the paper. It’s different than signing autographs for his fans postgame. Room to visit: _402_. 

He walks through the lobby, not really paying attention to the other elders who sit in plump armchairs or are resting in their wheelchairs, nodding off because they had just finished lunch. This is his custom. He doesn’t like to make eye contact with the other elders, because they always look at him as he passes, an unusual picture of youth. He’s someone who is visiting a resident, but not them. He feels secondhand guilt, wishes that he didn’t feel as though it’s his fault the lobby residents are not visited as well, at least not today. He knows that his grandmother is one of them on days that he does not come. 

Unconsciously relaxing when he gets to the elevator, away from the stares in the lobby, he stabs the button numbered four. He has to punch in a four digit PIN into a keypad on the side for it to light up. There are extra security precautions for any floor above the third. It takes a second to illuminate. The doors close unsettlingly slow, but this makes sense. It gives time for residents who walk with canes, or for those who need to be wheeled in. Tooru is lifted to the fourth floor, barely affected by the molasses-like movement of the elevator. 

He taps at the door with his knuckles twice, his signature greeting, not that any consistency should matter. The nameplate next to the door reads ‘Tomoe’ in cursive. 

There’s a call from the door, inviting him in. It’s not his grandmother, but probably a nurse who has brought his grandmother’s afternoon mix of medicine. Tooru closes the door behind him to see his grandmother sitting on her twin bed, swallowing her pills with the help of a small Dixie cup of water. The aide smiles, bows, and excuses herself. 

Before she exits the door, the aide swiftly turns to Tooru as if remembering something: “Just thought I would let you know that it is Music Monday. There will be dancing in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.” 

The door shuts with a click, and so now it’s just Tooru and his grandmother. His grandmother gazes up at Tooru, a fragile old woman with a short bob. Her white hair glitters in the early afternoon light that streams through the window. Everything in the room smells like her perfume. 

He takes a deep breath, “Hello, grandmother.” He bows, past the full ninety-degrees. 

“Hello?” He had expected this. 

“I’m Tooru, your grandson.” 

She smiles at him mysteriously, eyes kind, but unbelieving. “What a dashing young man. I’m a lucky lady.” She’s in a good mood today, because she had accepted his greeting instead of staying silent, as happened with some of her worse days. 

“I’m the lucky one. How are you feeling, sunflower?” 

This was also normal. Tooru only introduces himself as her grandson in the beginning, when he greets her. Shortly after her diagnosis, he had started to call his Grandmother Tomoe ‘sunflower’. The doctors had told his family that an insistence on reaffirming their identities to her may distress his grandmother, who may become emotional for not remembering her own family. ‘Sunflower’ lets her pretend that he could be anybody, an old friend, a cheeky classmate, or a flirty neighbor from next door who has stopped by for a chat. At this point in time, he doesn’t know what age she thinks she is, but it’s certainly regressed to one that is from a time before Tooru.

Tooru picks up her hairbrush, currently on the side table, and sits on the bed next to her, brushing her hair as he listens to her talk about how she would like a new throw pillow for her armchair. Tooru makes a mental note to bring one next time. 

She whispers to Tooru, “The people here don’t let me do my sewing, can you believe that?” He does his best to stage a shocked discontent on her behalf, knowing full well that she should not be handling any needlework. He wishes that he could find something else for her to do, though after a couple minutes of musing, he comes up short. 

He takes her skeletal hands in his own and cups them. He can tell his grandmother is a little confused at the sign of intimacy, but she plays along and leans her head onto his arm. She’s so small that her head doesn’t even reach his shoulder. He tells her about his own day, describes waking up late and having a morning jog around the neighborhood. Her eyes are closed, enjoying the warm sun on her face, still listening to Tooru’s gentle narrations. 

For a while, they sit in silence. Tooru’s eyes scan the wall, one that is burned into his memory. There’s a big picture frame that houses a collection of yellowed photos. The frame is an unassuming wooden brown, a bit worn-down and seems to show signs of being past its prime. The most notable is a photo in the frame is of his late grandfather, Takemi. Tooru has been told countless times by his grandmother when he was much younger, that he would grow up to resemble his grandfather. Today, Tooru can see the facial similarities—the nose, chocolate eyes, and the ears are identical. But his grandfather’s smile had been much kinder. 

“Sunflower, do you like to dance?” 

Her head perks up from the resting place on Tooru’s arm, suddenly she is another person. 

“Oh, young man. You bet I do. I am pretty good, if I do say so myself.” A painful, muffled laugh escapes Tooru’s lips. She had been the best. 

Tooru helps her stand up from her bed, standing up himself as well. He holds out his arm to her, which she calmly loops her own through. Tooru leads her out of her own door, down the hallway to the elevator, and down to the lobby. The whole journey to the activity room in the lobby had felt like eternity. _Time passes so slowly here._

It’s Music Monday. The rather spacious activity room is cleared, chairs lining the edges, and a hardwood floor in the middle with a couple of the sprightlier seniors swaying their hips blissfully to a slower 70s song. None of them are on beat, but none of them care about that. An aide stands by the speaker system with a small laptop, the unassuming DJ. Other residents are in chairs, humming along to the familiar tunes. 

“Sunflower, may I have this dance?” With a flourish, Tooru bends down, offering his hand to his grandmother, who giggles and looks down at her feet. He’s a textbook gentleman. 

“My, you’re bold!”

“So I’ve been told.” She accepts his hand, resting her hand on Tooru’s shoulder and the other in his right hand. Tooru puts his hand on the side of her waist, leading her to an unoccupied corner of the activity room—no, makeshift ballroom. Tooru steps slowly and surely, making sure that his grandmother is not outpaced. With a cheeky grin, he lifts his arm over her head, waiting for her to make a slow turn for him. She’s giggling all the while. Other seniors look at the two, equally amused and intrigued. 

His grandmother eyes him with suspicion, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“I must have picked it up here and there.” Tooru indulges her with a small shrug of his shoulders. 

Oikawa Takemi and Tomoe had been the most famous ballroom dancers in Japan fifty years ago. Both from wealthy families, both dashingly charming, and both in possession of a ruthless perfectionist’s attitude. A fiery match made in heaven. Oikawa Takemi was the picture-perfect stoic gentleman, Tomoe bringing him out of his shell on the dance floor with her dazzling smile, wild heart, and extra flair. Anybody watching would be entranced, novice or seasoned expert. Stored-away tape recordings in the Oikawas’ attic would show flawless dance after another. Medal ceremonies with flowers showering the two just as aplenty. Everyone knew it had never really been for the accolades. Their true loves were dancing and each other. 

It’s no surprise that Oikawa’s father, an exceedingly charming young man, had been raised to ballroom dance. He had met Oikawa’s mother through ballroom dance as well. The ballroom dancing community welcomed the second generation of Oikawa ballroom dancers, who were just as talented, skillful, and charismatic as the first had been. Nowadays, they are past their glory days of competition, but travel the world as renowned ballroom teachers, holding exclusive workshops for the best of the best. 

To say that it was a disappointment to the entire family when Tooru had not wanted to become a professional ballroom dancer was the biggest understatement of the century. Tooru has no regrets, he had loved volleyball from the first moment he had played in middle school. His parents asked him _why not_ , especially since Tooru is an undeniable natural at dance. 

The talent was clearly in his genes, each step technically precise, each glide gracefully fluid. His ear for music and his sense for timing impeccable. He had been ballroom dancing since he could walk, much at his parents’ will. That would have been the easy way out. He had wanted something all his own, and though volleyball scared him—he didn’t have the inborn talent there, he was no genius—he wanted to become the best at it. Tooru could have had the ballroom dancing world at his feet. With volleyball, he had been challenged and thrown to his own knees. 

_Let him do what he loves. Can’t you see that he loves it?!_ His grandmother, Tomoe, had said. And that had been end of discussion. Tooru owed his grandmother everything. He owed her this dance, this fleeting dance that would never become a solidified memory for her, but one that she rightfully deserves all the same. 

Grandmother and grandson move in figure-eights across the dancefloor, passing by the aide DJ, who smiles as they whisk by. They’re losing themselves in the music. Tooru’s grandmother is dancing with her eyes closed, muscle memory overriding her older limbs and renewing them for a time when the spotlight was on her. Talent is never truly gone. Tooru is having his own fun, putting his own spin on his moves, though capping it so as not to overwhelm his grandmother. A sight to behold. 

The song changes to a slower one, one more serious. The other seniors around them raise their arms and sway. Tooru smiles. They may as well be young again, swaying their hands to a slow, end-of-concert song. Tooru and his grandmother slow their pace a bit to accommodate the change in music. Tooru feels his grandmother slowly come to a stop, so he stops too. They’re still standing, still in dancing position, but unmoving. Something’s off. 

Tooru doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know what to say, or what to ask. 

There’s a tear that slips down the side of his grandmother’s cheek. A single one, that seeps from her duct and makes the curve along the cheek, falling on her soft pink sweater with a plop. She doesn’t even seem to notice, too busy watching Tooru. Her brown eyes are clearer than Tooru has seen them in these past five years. Her arm lifts from her place on Tooru’s shoulder and strokes his cheek with a graze that is softer than soft. 

“…Takemi dear, is that you?” 

Tooru’s eyes widen, he can’t hear the music anymore, as he internally debates on whether or not to break his rule of only referring to her as ‘sunflower’, if he should not respond, or if he should lead her back to her room immediately. 

But he can’t stop himself, because he knows what the right answer should be. 

“Who else, partner?” He does his best impression of his grandfather’s voice, a bit huskier than his own. He knows his grandfather always called her his partner. In dance, in life, in love. Tooru curses himself in his head, knowing it definitely was not convincing. 

“I knew it was you.” 

Tooru brings her to his chest, hugging his grandmother gently, unable to look at her anymore. He pats her on the head. He can feel more wetness on his t-shirt as he struggles to stop the moisture in his own eyes from spilling full on tears. It’s impossibly hard. The weight of the tears causes his bottom eyelids to sag, and he can feel the hot trails of his ridiculously heavy tears falling all at once. He can’t do this, he needs to be strong, he needs to be Oikawa Takemi, if only for these few minutes. 

Unfortunately he’s only Oikawa Tooru, a twenty-four-year-old man who misses his favorite grandmother, even though she’s right in his arms. 

Oikawa Takemi—or Tooru, it could be either—cradles the fragile old woman in his arms until the song ends. 

As if the song were an enchantment itself, Tooru’s grandmother pulls away gently and looks up at her dance partner. She looks a bit confused at the sight of him. 

“A handsome man such as yourself should not wear such a brokenhearted face.” She wipes away Tooru’s tears with the sleeve of her soft sweater, smiling unknowingly. Grandmother Tomoe blinks as she looks around at her surroundings, reacquainting herself with the sight of the activity room and the other residents around her, as though she had just been plopped in there. 

She must not know how she got here. Tooru doesn’t want to overwhelm her, so he says, “You’re right, sunflower. Let’s go home.” Arm in arm, they leave the activity room and go back to her room. The aide will be coming soon to take his grandmother to the hall for dinner, so he helps his grandmother into the armchair and drapes a fleece blanket on her. It would be good to rest after their dance. 

“Thank you…” he can see she’s struggling with trying to remember his name to express her gratitude for the blanket. He fills in for her before she thinks more, “Tooru.” 

“Thank you, Tooru.” 

“Of course. I’ll be back soon.” He plants a soft kiss on her forehead, sweeping a stray hair out of the way to do so. 

As he closes the door to Room 402 behind him, Tooru feels a pang in his chest. He’ll definitely come back soon. Enough so that he’s there for it most of it, good and bad. He doesn’t want her to be alone when she inevitably starts to lose the ability to talk and understand those around her. 

When the elevator doors open, Tooru walks out and past the front desk. This time, he walks more slowly through the lobby. His mind is in sort of a haze, but he’s not particularly forming a coherent thought in his head. It’s many emotions fighting in his head, competing for the forefront. He’s pretty tired. 

“Oikawa?” It’s Sugawara Koushi, holding a sizable empty box. He’s standing near the front-desk, presumably having paused his conversation with the front-desk aide. 

“Suga?” 

Sugawara explains, “I come here once a month to swap out some books for the library here. When I walked in, I saw you and your grandmother come out of the elevator. I didn’t want to disturb you two, so I went to stock the library.” 

Coincidence upon coincidence in this small town. How could he and Sugawara not have met until recently, even though they’d both been living in Shimoda for at least a couple years? It would have been nice to meet Sugawara a little earlier, under different circumstances—perhaps ones without Daichi. Maybe things could be different. 

“Ah.” Tooru is strangely at a loss for words. His terse response is not lost on Sugawara, who probably expects Tooru to hit on him at any given moment. 

Sugawara knows enough about Tooru to know he’s not his usual self, “Are you alright, Oikawa?”

Oikawa. Today he had been Tooru. Briefly Takemi. He decides that he would like to stay as Tooru for a little longer. It’s what his grandmother called him, before... 

Tooru gains a bit of his normal self back, giving Sugawara a smile. “I’ll be fine. Could you call me Tooru? Oikawa feels a bit weird right now.” Sugawara tilts his head at the request, correctly sensing it’s not a gimmick by Tooru for the two to appear closer than the acquaintances they had been. 

“Alright. Tooru. No calling me Koushi, though.” This gets a laugh from Tooru, and Sugawara’s shoulders appear to relax. 

“I would expect nothing less from you.” There’s a muted melody floating from the activity room door, which is slightly ajar. The DJ must have changed the song, this one being loud enough to travel to the middle of the lobby. Tooru is reminded that he’s been presented with yet another opportunity. He doesn’t get chances to see Sugawara very often. 

“Would you dance with me?” Tooru asks, the question coming out a lot less smooth than he would have liked. Sugawara looks a bit hesitant now. It’s easy to envision the inside of Sugawara’s brain, scrambling to find an excuse that isn’t outright rude, but one that will get him out of the situation. It’s now or never. 

“Just one song. Five minutes at the most.” Even that’s enough. The words slip out before Tooru can bargain for more. 

Sugawara can’t come up with an excuse, “If you say so.” It would have been rude to refuse a mere five minutes of his time. 

Tooru returns to the makeshift danceroom, this time with a different dance partner. The DJ aide welcomes him back with a wave, changing the song to an instrumental of a popular old song. It’s more upbeat than the past ones, better for quicker in-steps and pirouettes. Tooru looks at Sugawara and extends his arm, though more tentatively than he had when he had for his grandmother. Sugawara takes it and reluctantly places his hand on Oikawa’s shoulder. His touch is light, barely there. 

The two begin to move around the room. It’s nothing like Tooru had expected. He would have thought that it would be him taking the lead, guiding Sugawara across the floor, as he had with his grandmother. But Sugawara is a decent dancer himself. Though not technically perfect, his steps bounce in time and he is as daring as Tooru, matching his steps pace for pace. It is not a dance with a leader and a follower, it is a conversation between two equals—spoken through the rhythm. 

Tooru’s hand relaxes to grip Sugawara’s more easily, knowing that he can dance to his full capacity. He takes a bold step forward, toward Sugawara’s body, and Sugawara steps back as a reaction, breath hitching at the sudden advance. Sugawara’s wispy bangs part as he exhales. 

It’s a challenge from Tooru. 

Sugawara’s eyes flash in defiance. He doesn’t waste a second by taking Tooru’s hand, which was on Sugawara’s waist, and brings it up to his own shoulder. He then places his hand on Tooru’s waist. In a swift motion, Sugawara dips Tooru back, surprisingly sturdy arm holding Tooru from falling to the ground. He can only look up at Sugawara, whose delicate eyes don’t leave Tooru’s face, daring him to look away if he can’t handle it. _Just try me._

This is the first time someone has made Tooru’s stomach flutter. His heart pounds. Maybe the blood was rushing too quickly to his head. 

It’s a daring coup of power. Sugawara hoists Tooru back up, with no effort and a rush of air. They’re both panting from the exhilaration, staring at each other’s eyes, egging each other on. _What are you going to do next, you fox?_

Tooru can’t stop an incredulous smile as Sugawara takes the first step toward the middle of the floor. 

Tooru matches Sugawara’s one-two as they head to the middle, all eyes on them. A few of the seniors clap and point, the most entertainment they have seen today. 

Sugawara cocks his eyebrow as he huffs out, “Where’d you learn to dance?” Tooru can’t help but wonder where Sugawara has learned his own moves. He decides not to ask, since he’s starting to get out of breath, too. 

“It’s in the family. Ballroom in my blood.” Sugawara’s eyes search Tooru’s face, as if looking for the signs of a lie or facetiousness. 

Tooru gives him no time to muse; in the wink of an eye, he elevates his arm above Sugawara’s head, the momentum promptly launching Sugawara into a spin. Tooru has never seen such grace. It’s all slow motion as Sugawara twirls not once, but twice around. 

Sugawara completes his spins a little off balance, stabilizing himself by placing his both hands onto Oikawa’s chest. Tooru knows better than to point this out, so he waits for Sugawara to catch his breath and pull away. Sugawara doesn’t pull away, but leans in closer, closer… _His lips are so close. I can see his mole so clearly right now. It’s almost in the shape of a heart—_. Tooru closes his eyes and parts his lips, ready for the kiss. 

That doesn’t happen either. He’s been baited. Tooru opens his eyes and feels the air from Sugawara’s breath brush his ear, whispering, “I’ve written part of a song. Just for myself. Do you want to hear?” 

Tooru can only nod. Sugawara, chuckling knowingly at Tooru’s slip-up, graciously gives him time to recover. Sugawara unlinks himself from Tooru and heads to the DJ across the floor. The aide tilts the laptop to Sugawara after typing in a search query, who nods in confirmation. The song they had been dancing to abruptly ends, and a quieter, instrumental song that Tooru can vaguely recognize purrs through the speakers. 

Sugawara is back in Tooru’s arms, and they continue dancing. This time, it’s a slow sway. It can hardly be called a dance, but in Tooru’s head, it’s more than enough. 

Sugawara begins to sing. Tooru wills himself not to instantly melt, because Sugawara’s voice is crisp and clear, but quiet so that only Tooru can hear his sacred song. It’s liquid honey. It fills Tooru’s veins and he buzzes.

_Don’t shake me up, don’t trip me before I fall._

_Who knows the terrors of tomorrow?_

_I’m here, windborne, flying through any wall._

_The taste of you n’ me is all I have to know._

A verse about the present. It’s an ode to the beauty of now. A stopwatch to pause the current moment.

Sugawara stops singing, but he is not done. He hums along with the melody, eyes peering straight into Tooru’s core as they continue to sway together. No one says anything more. The song peters out and transitions to the normal brand of 70s music. Sugawara backs away from Tooru. 

“Thanks for the escape from reality. I have to get going.” The usual edge he hears in Sugawara’s voice is nowhere to be heard. 

Which is why there’s no resentment in Tooru’s voice when he follows with, “I’m sure you do.” 

“Don’t look so sad. You’re the belle of the ball, hot stuff. Get to it!” Sugawara gives him a swat on the behind and then points his thumb to a group of three older ladies sitting in the chairs nearby. They wave and wink jokingly at Tooru. Tooru had not seen them until now, since he had been preoccupied with Sugawara. 

He watches Sugawara’s back head out the door of the room. Sugawara picks up the empty cardboard box on his way out. 

“Alright, who wants to go first?”

And that’s how Oikawa Tooru spends the rest of his afternoon, dancing with each senior who approaches him for a dance. He gives each of them their proper turn and attention, spending a full song with them before another one inevitably taps his shoulder, stealing him away. Tooru is everybody’s favorite grandson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do we think of ballroom Oikawa?


	7. I Don't Think About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenma visits Kuroo at the surf shop. Oikawa and Suga have their biggest fight yet.
> 
> [Small warning: There's some brief description of physical defense(?). It's very short, and I don't think it's too bad--but, I don't know everybody's comfort level.]

“Heading out!” Daichi yells over his shoulder, giving a wave before unlocking his car. 

“See ya around, Kuroo!” Oikawa cups his hand by his mouth, sing-songing his farewell. He heads over to the passenger side of Daichi’s car, the two likely going to grab an early dinner together. 

Oikawa jokes, “You sure you don’t want to eat with us? Dai is meaner to me when you’re not around…” 

“Don’t be like that to Daichi. Go ahead. Drive safe, you two.”

Kuroo calls back, thinking he’s lucky to be able to work with his most reliable friends. Even if Oikawa didn’t seem like it with his constant joking and lighthearted attitude, he was just as dependable and hardworking as Daichi. The three had been teammates on the court and off the court for as long as he could remember. He knows that Daichi and Oikawa make the effort to help him out more, especially since now they live in the same town. 

Kuroo suspects that they have been exceedingly nice to him ever since his injury.

It’s the way they don’t bring up anything related to volleyball unless he asks them about it first. This had started back in university, after he had told them that the doctors had unanimously advised him not to play competitively anymore. Oikawa and Daichi had stayed with him the entire week after it had happened, comforting him with their presences—but both at a loss for words. There was nothing that could be said to make it better. 

It’s also the way they always offer to stay behind their shifts end, to help him close up. It’s not a big deal, Kuroo will tell them, waving off their insistence because he knows training full-time then having to squeeze in surf-shifts can be tiring. Besides, it’s his job—not theirs. He hasn’t told them yet, but he’s been having interviews for more part-timers, so they don’t have to feel as obligated to fill the shifts. One day, they’ll see he’s completely fine. 

_Is he?_

Kuroo steps outside of the surf shack and moves to the front so that he can pull down the protective shutters for the windows. Lost in his thoughts, reminiscing about times when Oikawa, Daichi, and him would stay after practice to practice even more, Kuroo whistles as he does a final once over of the shack, making sure everything is in its place before he heads out. Ukai-sensei would often yell at them to get out of the university gym, because recovery is just as important in a training regimen. Post-injury, Kuroo could never pass by the gymnasium, too afraid to see Oikawa and Daichi getting to play the sport he had been torn from. 

Kuroo’s not usually one to mope, but for some reason he had only existed in his memories today. 

“Ukai-sensei would laugh, if he saw us all together like this even after all these years. Still doing more than we need to.” He says this aloud, a barely-there comment. A strange smile is on his face. It’s there to make him feel better. Which isn’t working. 

“Who are you talking to?” 

Kozume Kenma stands a few feet behind him, wearing his signature red hoodie and black ripped jeans. In his two hands, he holds a volleyball. From the looks of it, one that has never been used. It’s green and yellow. Kuroo recognizes the logo of a popular gaming company. Kenma had probably received it as complimentary merchandise from them. Kuroo wipes his eyes, wondering if he is seeing an apparition. 

“No one in particular. But I guess you, since you heard. What’s with the ball?” 

Kuroo tries to contain his excitement at Kenma’s sudden appearance at the beach by keeping his face neutral. This is the first time that Kenma has ever initiated. It’s also the first time they’ve seen each other face-to-face after the cat café date. He got the sense that if Kenma wanted to continue with, well, whatever this was, Kenma would need to give the go-ahead. Kuroo had been waiting, patiently. He hadn’t been in a hurry. 

“Want to toss?” Kenma raises his two hands up, lifting the ball to offer it to Kuroo. 

“… Sure. Go easy on me, Kenma.” 

“You won’t have to worry about that.” 

After slipping off his shoes, feet disappearing into the soft sand, Kenma holds out the ball with his left hand and lightly swings his right hand in an upside-down arc to meet the ball. A mini-underhand serve. The ball sails gently, but precisely over its way to Kuroo. 

Kuroo hasn’t touched a volleyball since he had thrown away his own in university. Could he just play again, like that? Was it that easy? 

The sentimental, nostalgic type, Kuroo doesn’t usually trash keepsakes—but some memories are too painful to want to remember. It had been useless… He wouldn’t need anything to remind him of what he had lost; his own brain did that often enough. 

Before he knows it, he cups his hands together, straightens his arms, and meets the ball halfway on its descent. 

_Hello again, old friend._

_Bump._

Instinct had taken over his body. A gentle receive, nothing to write home about. About ten percent of his former potential power. Yet, it is enough. Enough to send the ball neatly and high enough in Kenma’s direction. 

Kenma quickly steps forward, a bit clumsily, his footsteps leaving divots in the sand. Kuroo realizes that Kenma is positioning himself under the ball for a set. His fingers bend back, allowing the ball to fall into his hands, and then he flicks, sending the ball high up, back to Kuroo. His hands temporarily fold over, to follow through on the set. 

“Whoa, a setter? You’ve played before?” Kuroo keeps his eyes trained on the ball, but he can’t help but wonder how Kenma knows how to set. 

“No… But I figure it’s better for me to use my fingers.” 

_Bump._

Kuroo nods as he receives the ball, because Kenma must feel more comfortable with the ball in his fingers. They’re practically trained in reflex and sensitivity from his videogame playing. He’s precise and controlled. 

“Impressive. You surprise me.” 

“You, too.” 

Kuroo lifts his eyebrow in response. 

_Bump._

Kenma trains his eyes on the ball that’s sailing over to him. 

“You obviously love this. Don’t you miss it?” 

His narrow eyes shift from the ball in the air to Kuroo. 

The hollow feeling in Kuroo’s chest is one that had been absent for a while. It’s one that he’s ignored, because facing it means either forgetting volleyball completely or being crushed by the fact he will never play again. He’d rather be in limbo. He hadn’t ever wanted to be a “casual” volleyball player. 

Kuroo answers, “It’s painful if I’m not going to do it all the way.” 

Kenma’s forehead scrunches. Kuroo can tell it’s not from the effort of following the ball, but rather discontent with Kuroo’s response. 

_Flick. Swish._

“Does everything need to be one-hundred percent? Why not do something for its own sake? ...Isn’t that when you truly know that you love something?” 

Kuroo thinks on this, because Kenma brings up a good point. A point fundamentally contradictory to his own thinking, but one that has its own merit. One that no one has ever dared challenge him with before. He doesn’t know the answer to Kenma’s question. So instead, he answers another one. 

“I don’t know. Or—I do know. It was like one moment I was one person, and then the next, I was a completely different person. I was never given a choice. I might have left volleyball eventually, but I wanted that to be my decision.” 

Kuroo remembers his last game. He had been wheeled out on a stretcher after a block had hit too hard on his left hand, too in pain to be able to stand up or be carried out by a teammate. He was completely alone. No team or captain to lean on that time. 

_Thunk._

“I think I can understand.”

Normally, this would have sounded empty, or fake, coming from any other person. From Kenma, it felt like reassurance. Reassurance that he wasn’t crazy, that he had been right to be upset. 

_Plop. Swish._

Unable to stop himself, Kuroo starts to tell Kenma about Kuroo Tetsurou, the volleyball player. 

It’s nice to be able to talk about this with someone, someone who didn’t know everything that had happened. With Kenma, he can choose how he portrays his time with volleyball. If anything, he wants Kenma to know him as the volleyball player that Kuroo wants to remember himself as. 

It wouldn’t be like with Oikawa or Daichi, who already have their own memories of Kuroo’s volleyball career. 

“You know, I was a middle-blocker. They’re not the flashy attackers of the team. I analyzed opponents, got under their skin...” He pauses, to receive the ball. 

_Bump._

“You still kind of do that.” Hilarious. 

“Alright, alright.” Kuroo chuckles. 

_Bump._ Kenma tries receiving for the first time. It’s not the best. Kenma’s body shakes once as he absorbs the impact of the ball. But it still returns to Kuroo, albeit a bit off. 

“But—the best thing for me is, at least—immediately turning your opponent’s point into your own.” 

_Thunk._

Kenma is silent. 

Kuroo would think that Kenma had tired of his reminiscing, but the way Kenma eyes him before turning his gaze to the ball would suggest otherwise. 

“I see. I don’t think I’ve seen videogames where you can do that.”

Kuroo admits, “It’s very unique.” He also cannot think of a videogame where that’s possible. 

_Flick. Swish._

To give Kenma more explanation, he continues, “It’s careful planning, split-second judgment calls, and a tiny bit of luck that your read of a player was correct. You feel the incoming spike become absolutely powerless because of your block. And then, you guide it to do what you want it to do.” 

Kuroo says this as if to refresh his own hands, to tell them what it was like to successfully block a ball. His fingers look long and bony. They’re strangers to him. At one time, they had been part of a formidable wall, reaching over the net. He cups his hands to receive the ball. 

_Bump._

“What about right now?”

Kenma’s question brings Kuroo back to the present. It’s necessary, because Kuroo knows that his head has been more in the clouds than on the sand. He scolds himself, because he should be focusing on Kenma. 

Kenma is the one right in front of him, tossing him the ball. 

Not sure of what Kenma is asking, he tilts his head: “Right now?”

“Kuroo, are you enjoying yourself, right now?” 

Kenma tilts his own head to look at the ball, raising his arms over his head. Kenma’s arms aren’t especially long, but they are agile enough to sense where the ball is headed and respond accordingly. His hand-eye coordination amazes Kuroo, yet again. 

_Flick. Swish._

Anchoring his toes in the sand, Kuroo bends down to stabilize himself for the receive. 

The ball is swayed midair, because a strong gust of ocean breeze has made its way over to Kuroo and Kenma. Having to adjust, Kuroo realizes he won’t make it in time if he runs, so he dives into the sand. A puff of sand spray flies as his feet kick into the air. 

Thankfully, his right shoulder is his good shoulder. As he’s diving, he stretches out his right arm as far as it will go, elbow skimming over the sand, a warm burn from the friction. _Don’t let it touch the sand._ Don’t let it _get away from you._ It’s a plea to his brain, a command to his heart. 

And then he feels the ball fall on the flat of his wrist. It’s sent straight into the air from the impact. _I got it._

_Bump._

Kenma catches the ball, which has landed in his two hands softly. He stares quietly at Kuroo, who is still sprawled on the sand. Kuroo’s head is buried on his right arm. His whole body is shaking. He’s laughing, louder than he has in forever, gasping for breath, as though he has just become alive. He gulps air into his lungs, not getting enough. 

It’s salty like the sea, but it’s the first time he’s tasted the air so hungrily. After all, volleyball is the game where the number one goal is to keep the ball in the air. _How could I have forgotten? The number one goal._

“Yes. _God_ —Kenma, this feels so good. The best I’ve felt in a while.”

His wrist still feels the warm contact of the ball. He stands up, dusting the sand off of his t-shirt and arms. Kenma comes over, giving Kuroo’s pant leg a few pats to dislodge off some of the sand he has missed. 

“You’re sweet, Kenma.” 

Kuroo’s thankful for Kenma. Thankful for someone to lift him out of the clouds and bring him back to the ground. Actually—no, that wasn’t quite it. Someone who could meet him halfway. Kenma had brought the volleyball to him, and Kuroo had received that first ball. 

Kuroo's face softens as he ponders why the quiet, seemingly apathetic neighbor across the street had come to play some beach volleyball with him. 

“Is it so wrong that I wanted to do something for you? I felt like you needed this.” An indignant Kenma scrunches his nose, apparently flustered and annoyed that the idea of him being kind is hard to fathom. 

_Bump._

“It’s a compliment! Not an insult. And—you’re right. I did. I did need this.” He lets himself feel good, lets himself relax in the glow of the sunset. Lets himself pretend that he had never stopped playing volleyball, asking for forgiveness that he had not appreciated it for the simple fun that it was. 

Kenma’s face is focused, face pulled in taught concentration. 

“I wanted you to level up. You deserve that.”

Kuroo scratches his head after sending the ball back, because he doesn’t know how else to take this rare compliment from Kenma. It’s not the giddy feeling that one might associate with a first love, but rather a comforting and airy warmth in his heart. He feels light, but not so much that he’ll fly to the heavens. 

“Oh?” 

_Flick._

“Hey, um.”

Kenma’s long hair sweeps across his face after setting, which he pushes back in place to the corners of his eyes. No further, no less. Kenma is clearly hesitant about what he wants to say. Kuroo notices the shift in atmosphere, because Kenma has lost the simple, matter-of-fact way of speaking he normally uses. 

_Bump._

“Yeah?”

Kenma’s voice quiets as he says, “If… if we’re dating… Could we take it slow?” 

_Be still, soul._

Kuroo is absolutely elated, formerly not knowing how he stood with Kenma. He thought he would have to be the one to establish anything, but at the same time he had not wanted to alarm Kenma with something he didn’t want. _Kenma… wants this to happen?_

_Plop, swish._

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere. We can take as long as we need to ‘level up’ together.” 

Kuroo is doing his best to keep his cool. The more he makes a big deal out of it, the more Kenma will hate it. But he looks over and sees Kenma cringing at what Kuroo has just said. _Well, so much for that._

“Don’t use ‘level up’ like that.”

Even though Kenma had scolded Kuroo, Kuroo feels on top of the world. He is dating Kenma. Kenma seems to be more at ease, too—Kuroo’s promise to take things slow must have rid a lot of hesitations from Kenma’s mind. 

“What?! Unfair, so you can use videogame references and I can’t?”

_BUMP._

This time, Kenma is the one to let out a laugh. It’s a laugh that you can barely hear over the crash of the waves, but his closed eyes reveal his amusement. Actually, his laugh is actually some wheezing mixed with small snickers. Kuroo makes it his personal goal to make this laugh happen as much as he can. Even if his jokes’ success rate with Kenma is only five percent. 

“That’s exactly how it works.” 

_Plop, swish._

As Kenma positions himself for a set, Kuroo bends down again to get ready to receive. 

Kenma asks, “…Does this count a date?”

Taken aback, Kuroo catches the ball instead of sending it back. 

He wants Kenma to focus on what he’s going to say next, instead of having to set the ball to him. Kenma must have asked this because Kuroo had taken him somewhere last time, and Kenma must have wanted to return the favor in some way. Knowing that Kenma is not one for crowds, after last time, Kuroo doesn’t want Kenma to overextend himself for him. 

This must have taken a lot of courage from Kenma, even if it didn’t look like a big deal to others. 

“Two people spending time together, getting to know each other, a romantic sunset… I’d say so.” 

He walks over to Kenma with the volleyball and stops right in front of Kenma. 

“Kozume Kenma, _thank you_ for the wonderful date. And for showing me I can still love volleyball.” 

He hands the ball to Kenma, who brings his hands up to take it in his own. 

His fingers curl around the surface, keeping it safe as Kuroo lets go of it. Kuroo decides that it had been the right choice, to let Kenma be the one to hold onto the volleyball for them. 

Maybe Kenma and him had met for a reason. Maybe, despite Kuroo’s want for control and calm, he would once again succumb to fate’s plans for him. Unlike with his injury, this time he would accept fate with open arms. It had led him to Kenma, after all. 

Kenma can’t meet his eyes, as he does whenever he receives a comment. He looks to the waves to avoid his gaze, but his words are unmistakable: “You’re welcome.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Sugawara Koushi is locking up the front door to _The Quill_. Akaashi had left just a minute before, absentmindedly muttering something to himself about needing to run to make dinner tonight, since Kenma would be home late for unexplained reasons.

His mind drifts to an annoying, bouncy-haired brunette. 

Oikawa Tooru had been the most frustrating person to figure out. Unlike Sugawara’s usual unwanted suitors, Tooru had not backed down from Sugawara’s snubs. _Ugh, stupid Tooru._

 _Tooru?_ Sugawara gives himself a light slap on the face as he jigs the key out of the keyhole. He now thinks of Oikawa as Tooru in his mind, ever since that day they had danced together. It’s a weakness that he doesn’t want to ever let Tooru—no, Oikawa—hang over his head. At least Tooru—no, _Oikawa_ —couldn’t read his thoughts. 

It’s during this internal frenzy that Sugawara feels a rather solid hand land on his shoulder from behind him. 

The dusk is just starting to turn to night, and Sugawara has heard too many horror stories about robberies near the boardwalk to take any chances. He hates anyone underestimating him. Because he’s Sugawara Koushi, not a delicate bookstore nerd that many may take him for. 

With a deft agility, Sugawara swings his left elbow backward into his attacker’s stomach, because everybody knows that the elbow is the strongest point on the human body. The stomach that Sugawara’s elbow meets is surprisingly solid—but all evil henchmen must be buff. 

Though Sugawara has not worked out in quite a bit, he knows that the best weapon is giving an attacker a hard time, so that they’ll give up. 

He whisks around to get a good look at the robber, ready to look at their eyes for a police identification. 

And instead he sees nothing. But, he hears a wheezing pant from below him. 

On the sidewalk behind him is Oikawa Tooru, doubled over. The wind has been knocked out of him. Sugawara feels a pang of guilt, because he knows being on the receiving end of that must not have been pleasant. At least Tooru is fit enough where he can regain his breath easily. 

“Damn… And… I… thought… we… were… finally… making… prog… pro…gress.” 

Tooru’s chest heaves as his lungs try to pump oxygen into his blood. 

“Honestly, you should know better than to sneak up on someone like that.” 

Getting up from the sidewalk, using his hand to steady himself on his knee, Tooru manages out, “I… know… that… now…” 

Sugawara decides an apology is in order: “Sorry. I was paranoid. With reason.”

It’s a terrible apology, but his fear had been real. Tooru had also touched him without his permission. It would have been fine if Tooru had called out his name instead. At least that would have given Sugawara some time to run to his car to avoid Tooru’s latest advances. 

Tooru’s face doesn’t wear any contempt or annoyance. It’s strangely—strangely full of concern and a flush of anger. 

“Has… has something bad to you happened here before?!”

“No, what? Why?” 

Sugawara is upset that Tooru thinks he has been taken advantage of, as if he can’t take care of himself and needs to lash out whenever he’s in potential danger. He doesn’t want Tooru to worry for him. He hates anybody worrying for him. It’s a bit hypocritical, but it’s just the way he is. 

“I’m just trying to understand why you feel the need to be so defensive, like someone hurt you before.” _Not this, again._

“Everyone has to take care of themselves. I don’t need anybody to rescue me. You shouldn’t either.”

Sugawara is ready to head to his car, ready to end the conversation. He had enough from Oikawa Tooru today. 

“Then why is your type reliable-looking guys?”

“Excuse me?!” This is unforgiveable. Sugawara turns around on his heel. He’ll let Tooru have it today. He gives Oikawa Tooru a chance to explain himself. It’s actually a second chance. One that he should not screw up. 

“Daichi is someone who looks like he can help you and who you can fall back on. I just don’t get it—because you don’t want to fall back on _anybody_! You wouldn’t let yourself!” 

Tooru has blown Sugawara’s second chance. Sugawara needs a second to collect himself. Even though it’s true—he wouldn’t ever let himself depend on anybody—he is most definitely not going to let Tooru know that. 

Biting back, Sugawara snaps, “I can have my tastes in men. Don’t read too much into it.”

“Is it ‘cause you don’t trust anyone to do for you, what you do for everyone else?” 

Tooru isn’t backing down, and his eyes are nearly popping out of his head. Again, Tooru is irritatingly spot-on. 

Sugawara doesn’t understand why Tooru doesn’t lay off of him and proceed with his life, not worrying about Sugawara—just like everyone else does. 

If Sugawara wasn’t angry before, he is now. 

“SO WHAT? So what if I like to help others, in my own way? This is who I am, and if you don’t like it—if it bothers you, then why don’t you just _leave me alone!?_ ” 

The streetlamps flicker on, fluorescent buzz adding to overwhelming strain between them. It must be getting late now. 

Sugawara raises his hand to push Tooru away from him. This is too much. 

The best possible course of action Sugawara can see is for him to leave and for Tooru to calm down. 

However, his hand is caught by Tooru, wrist gripped in Tooru’s unwavering fist. It doesn’t hurt, it simply holds Sugawara back from pushing him away. Though it’s not forceful in any way, Tooru’s determination to keep Sugawara from leaving keeps Sugawara’s feet from lifting from their place on the cobblestone. 

“Exactly. That is EXACTLY what I like about you.”

Tooru dares Sugawara to break eye contact, which Sugawara does not. Tooru’s eyes dance across Sugawara’s face, searching for a response from him. For a second, Sugawara’s steel resolve is melted. In complete shock, he hadn’t seen this coming. A blatant confession from Oikawa Tooru would not be something he would have ever expected. 

Unable to come up with anything better, Sugawara whispers out: “What?”

Tooru doesn’t miss a beat, “You’re unbelievably strong. You’re strong for yourself, and you’re strong for others, too.” 

In this moment, Sugawara feels anything but strong. 

He crumbles over hearing someone else calling him strong. Dissolving into himself, he realizes he’s been missing something his entire time of living. All his life, he’s known he is strong. He’s had to be strong. He knows others depend on him—how could he not be strong for them? 

But no one has ever acknowledged it so openly and so plainly as Tooru. No one has ever taken the time to tell him what he’s known all along. They expect Sugawara to keep on being himself, not knowing it takes effort to be the strong one for everyone, all the time. 

“W-Well, then if you like me—” 

Sugawara raises his other hand to free his arm from Tooru’s grip. The sensation is too much for him. He can’t, because Tooru meets it with his other hand. Now, both of his wrists are being suspended in the air by Tooru. He’s not threatening Sugawara, but Sugawara has no choice but to listen. Unlike every other time he has spoken to Oikawa Tooru, there’s no convenient exit here. Perhaps he had been too mean to never hear Tooru out before. 

“ _Because_ I like you, it makes me absolutely furious when I see you overextended or hurt. Like even the thought of you being scared and having to defend yourself against a stranger—even if it was me. Even though I know you can handle it. You could handle everything—but you shouldn’t have to go through that.”

Losing his flash of anger, Tooru lets go of Sugawara’s wrists. Tooru whispers out an apology and smooths his hair, which only bounces into its normal place. He’s calmer now, thankfully. Tooru and Sugawara hardly soften out each other’s edges. If anything, they sharpen them—they make the two even more of themselves than they are usually. 

Sugawara laughs incredulously, “Yeah, I don’t understand either. Am I just a challenge to you?” 

“Not _just_ a challenge. Is a challenge so bad? I work hard for what I want—who I want badly.” 

Sugawara is fully aware of the fact that Oikawa Tooru is one of the most popular players in the Japan volleyball circuit. It is next to near impossible to turn off the local Shimoda news without hearing the female anchors giggle a little too much while interviewing him for their athletic segments. He had been familiar with Tooru’s face before he had seen it in real life. 

“Oh, pretty boy. You act like you need to work hard to get a lover at all, which isn’t true.” 

“With you I seem to. I don’t intend to lose.”

“Tooru, you’re a piece of—”

 _Shit._ That was a big mistake. Sugawara claps his hand over his mouth, willing the name to come back into his lips, before Tooru— _dang it!_ —realizes. Which of course, does not happen. The name means that Sugawara doesn’t hate Tooru as much as he thinks he does. 

“Tooru? You think of me as Tooru?”

Tooru’s eyes are wide, and his shoulders are slack in shock. All the heat of their argument dissipates as Tooru takes a step closer to Sugawara. Sugawara tries to telepathically command Tooru out of this weird silence, which doesn’t happen as Tooru only steps closer to him, backing Sugawara into the front door of _The Quill._

Sugawara pants, realizing how tense he has been the entire time. He feels himself back up against the wooden panels of the door. 

“Just a slip.”

“Yeah right.” Tooru is dangerously close. Close enough where Sugawara can smell his deodorant, close enough to fully trace out the curve of his clever, brown eyes. 

For once, he doesn’t fight back. Tooru leans in, eyes now closed. He can feel Tooru’s hot breath on his cheeks, as if his own are not already starting to flush. Sugawara closes his own eyes shut as Tooru’s lips meet his own, feeling Tooru’s hands surround the base of his head, thumbs stroking his ears as his fingers weave through Sugawara’s hair. 

The light touches are everywhere at once, but somehow Sugawara wants even more than he’s getting. 

To do that, Sugawara hesitates for a second, but gives in and wraps his arm under Tooru’s arms and around his back to close the space between them. 

Now, he can feel Tooru’s chest against his own. Tooru radiates delicious heat, sending it through Sugawara’s own chest, traveling outwards to every finger and to his feet. Tooru has one leg placed between Sugawara’s, knee resting on the door to stable himself. Sugawara is thankful for the door behind them, which he himself leans on as Tooru moves to pepper kisses on Sugawara’s jaw. With each kiss, Sugawara fuses with the door more and more, melting. Not daring to open his eyes, Sugawara can feel the soft graze of Tooru’s lips on his jaw, shivering each time. 

Then, he lifts his arms and brings Tooru’s face between his own two hands, guiding it back to his own lips. Tooru is oddly respectful right now. He has overstepped every boundary except this one. Sugawara brings Tooru’s face to his own, and then with the slightest movement, parts his mouth open when he feels Tooru’s soft lips. 

That’s all the invitation Tooru needs. Tooru rushes forward into the kiss, gently begging for more with each stroke of his tongue against the roof of Sugawara’s mouth. Sugawara reacts to each one, relaxing his jaw a bit more to make it easier for Tooru. Everything is sensitive. Tooru tastes like sugar—maybe it’s from sports energy drinks—but Sugawara doesn’t mind. In fact, he can’t get enough. 

But they have to come up for air sometime, and when they do, they’re embarrassingly looking at each other’s reddened faces. They can’t say anything, because they’re focusing on getting air back into their lungs. Mouths open, the reality of what the two have just done sets in, but Sugawara isn’t upset. 

Tooru isn’t either. His pink cheeks are almost red in color, blazing from the heat of their smoldering kiss. If anything, he seems to be in a bit of a confusion—the passion of their loud fight and then the intensity of their sudden kiss has definitely confused his hormones, Sugawara concludes. 

Still in his daze, Tooru stands up straight and takes a big step back, presumably to give Sugawara some breathing space to process what’s just happened, because Tooru definitely is still doing so. It’s starting to get dark, but he can clearly make out Tooru’s face. Everything else is background. 

Oikawa Tooru’s right foot lands on the edge of the sidewalk, because the big step he has taken back has been a bit too long. It would have been hard to see the curb even if he had been facing forward, because Seashell Way is deceptively shadowy in early evening. Tooru’s foot gives way on the slippery curb, and he starts to fall backward. 

It all happens way _too_ fast, because Sugawara can barely get a yell out before he helplessly watches Tooru’s head hit the concrete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the break, I was getting some other writing done. 
> 
> ALSO-sorry for the cliffhanger HAHA but everything will be okay, because I am indeed, a writer of fluff. Some day, but not today, I may finally gain the ability to write sad things. 
> 
> I plan for four more chapters after this one: one for each of our lovely couples, then a wrap-up wholesome ending one with everybody! 
> 
> Next chap we'll spy in on bokuaka date night--a whole chap dedicated to the two! I'm way too excited to write it.


	8. I Found a Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Bokuto and Akaashi's world, and we're all just living in it.

_I’m going to do it today. I can do this. It’s easy. I just have to tell him. It’s not hard. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do—_

“AKAASHI, they have takoyaki, do you want to share some? I’m hungry.” 

Bokuto is tugging at the sleeve of Akaashi’s long sleeve, pointing to a stand with a line for takoyaki. A couple passes by with a paper tray, fried golden spheres with bold dashes of savory soy-based sauce decorating the surface. _Steaming and savory. It does look good._ The enticing smell of the cooked squid mingled with the plumes of foggy heat that rise from behind the food stall lure Bokuto to guide himself and Akaashi to stand in line. 

“It smells quite delicious.” 

Today is the first night of Shimoda’s Autumn Night Festival. Bokuto had seen a flyer for it in the mail and had come over straight away to knock on Akaashi’s door after work, begging him to go with him. How convenient, he could bring back some food for Kenma from the festival, instead of relying on his less-than-reliable cooking skills. 

_Please Akaashi, I haven’t been to a festival ever since I’ve moved here, can we please, please, please go?_ Akaashi would have assented to any of Bokuto’s requests upon hearing the first “please” he had heard. An unfortunate fact that both Bokuto and Akaashi knew. 

“I know! My mouth is watering.” Bokuto’s hands are in his pockets and he sighs in contentment after inhaling the air around him. Teasingly, naturally—he leans over to his side and playfully bumps into Akaashi, who by now is used to Bokuto’s antics. Without a word, Akaashi bumps him back, albeit a bit softer. The two continue like this until they’re at the front of the line, where Bokuto rattles off their order—because he knew exactly what he wanted. 

_Can I really do this today?_

Akaashi stares at his hands, fingers fidgeting with each other. Ever since he had become aware of his true feelings for Bokuto, they had been seeping out the seams despite Akaashi’s best efforts. Accepting his feelings made them more undeniable and Akaashi didn’t know how to handle a situation where he had liked someone _too much._ Best case scenario, Akaashi would be able to hide his feelings for a bit longer to enjoy his rather perfect friendship with Bokuto. 

_But where would that get them?_ Sugawara had asked, urging Akaashi to tell Bokuto how he feels. 

As usual, Sugawara was right. It’s next to impossible to tell himself not to feel the glow in his ears whenever Bokuto spends time with him. Akaashi just needed the right moment to present itself, and he’d do it—he hopes. Well—Bokuto was too nice to Akaashi, so he’d be let down easy at the worst.

“’Kaashi, you _have_ to have some of this.” 

Bokuto doesn’t even bother poking a stick into a new takoyaki ball for Akaashi, he just offers his already-bitten one to Akaashi by waving it in front of his mouth. These little acts of familiar affection between the two are not lost on Akaashi, who secretly relishes each one. 

The steam from the exposed inner core disperses out, misting Akaashi’s lips. To cool it down, Akaashi blows gently on the takoyaki for a second before biting down, dragging the ball off the stick and into his mouth. The fried, sauced encasing of the takoyaki dissolves, leaving the rubbery squid on the tip of his tongue. Akaashi chews heartily—it’s the best takoyaki he has ever had. 

Before he even looks up, Akaashi knows what to expect. He’s right in his prediction when he peers up, met with Bokuto’s eager face, waiting for Akaashi’s approval. Not one to disappoint, Akaashi hums out an _Mmm._ A sound that conveys just how scrumptious the treat had been. The reward of a larger-than-life grin from Bokuto is more than worth it. 

_I can tell him how I feel right now. He just makes me feel so comfortable. I can’t do this with anyone else._

“Bokuto-san—"

“Hey Akaashi, you got something on your face.”

Self-conscious, Akaashi tentatively puts his hand to his cheek and asks, “Oh, where?”

Bokuto takes his own thumb and swipes it over the corner of Akaashi’s mouth, rescuing some stray sauce from its precarious position. Then, he takes his thumb and licks the sauce off with his tongue, as Akaashi can only watch in pure horror. The seductive implications of his action paired with his innocent nature only keep Akaashi in his self-contained box of anguish. 

“YUM! Sorry, did you have something you were going to say?”

The moment has passed. 

“Oh, no.” 

Bokuto Koutarou is going to be the death of him. 

Striding ahead, Bokuto swings his arms as he heads down the row of stalls—forcing Akaashi to jog after him to catch up. Hopping from stall to stall, Bokuto’s step is a lot lighter and faster than normal. 

It dawns on Akaashi that Bokuto doesn’t have any of his recording equipment. Though his videotaping gear is lightweight and not that noticeable—Bokuto wears a mini mic clipped to his shirt and his camera is fairly small so that Bokuto can carry it for long periods of time—its absence lets him flit from place to place on his own, at the mercy of his own attention span. 

“Bokuto-san, you are not recording for a video today?” 

“Oh, I guess not! I ran out of the house so pumped to come here with you that I musta forgotten. Next time!” 

The two have passed the section of food stalls. Now, they approach a new section of the festival, one that is rowdier and livelier. The scents and the sizzles of the food stands are replaced with cheers and laughs from festival-goers. Booths lined with plastic toys and signs decorated with goldfish entrance many young children who beg their parents for a chance to play a festival game. 

“Wanna play a game?”

“How about this one?” Akaashi points to a ring-toss stand. 

The two head over to the stall and hand the clerk a few coins. The coins jingle in the clerk’s pocket as he bends down to retrieve ten rings for the two of them. 

The pegs beyond the counter of the stall are arranged in a diamond shape. Closest to the front there are only a couple pegs, in the middle there are a bunch of skinny pegs, and at the back, there is a single peg with slightly larger diameter. Each peg is painted with different colors, correlating to the size of the peg. Presumably, the larger pegs are harder to get the ring on, because the throws need to be more precise for the ring to land without bouncing off. 

Bokuto’s eyes are trained on the big peg in the back. 

“Go big or go home, Akaashi!”

The two start flinging rings into the stall, alternating throws so there’s no accidental collision. Bokuto throws with raw strength, often overshooting his intended goal and hitting the back canvas wall of the stall’s tent. Akaashi’s throws take longer, because Akaashi chooses a different goal each time and tries to adjust his throw accordingly. 

“How are you doing that?!” Bokuto stares at Akaashi on his fourth throw, already having landed two out of three of his throws on some of the skinnier pegs in the middle. None of Bokuto’s have landed, because he has just been aiming for the back. 

“Bokuto-san, you’re using too much force. A little toss is all you need.” 

Then he throws, this time a little farther so that on his next toss, he can go for the back peg as well. It’s hard to perform at his best, because Bokuto’s eyes are trained on him, studying his ring toss. It’s a bit comical since this is only a festival game. The ring lands on the peg just before the big one, sinking down with a small scrape of plastic on wood. 

“Oooooh. I think I get it. Let me try!” He uses a lot less of his bicep to toss his fifth and last throw, focusing more on the wrist as he snaps the ring forward. It sails gently through the air and hits the intended big peg at the back, but it bounces and lands on the same one that Akaashi had just thrown and landed. 

“That was much better, Bokuto-san.”

“Akaashi, get the last one! Avenge me!” 

Imbued with a sense of duty, Akaashi steadies himself and aims his final ring toss at the back peg. Bokuto peeks through his fingers, because he needs to see what happens even if it all ends with a tragic loss. 

There’s a terrible premonition that Akaashi gets, one that whispers to him that Bokuto is going to be pretty devastated if he doesn’t make this toss. _My future depends on this measly plastic ring._

The ring lands on the back peg, tossing and turning as it settles. The clerk, Bokuto, and Akaashi unblinkingly follow the revolutions with narrowed pupils. Any second, and it could hop off or fly off from the torque. But—miraculously—it doesn’t, and Akaashi will be able to live to see another day and not have to live in eternal wallowing. 

“YOU DID IT!” 

Akaashi pumps his fist, completely relieved and glad he didn’t crack under the pressure from the ring toss. But he might be from being crushed by Bokuto’s inescapable bear hug. There’s no strength in his lungs to say anything back to Bokuto, not that he needs to. 

The clerk interrupts Bokuto’s celebration, “Um, you get a prize. You can choose from the top row.” 

He gestures above the pegs to shelf upon shelf of stuffed animal of every species. Some hang from the ceiling of the tent as well. The top shelf has the largest plushes, presumably the special prizes saved for those who have won just as Akaashi and Bokuto have. 

“Akaashi, is there one that you want?”

“I won on your behalf, Bokuto-san. Please choose.” 

“Really!? In that case, THAT ONE. Second from the right, sir!” There’s absolutely no hesitation. He points to a fluffy barn owl with brown wings, a white-feathered belly, and tightly-knit pair of black eyebrows. 

The clerk brings a stool over, tippy-toeing to reach the barn owl. He hands the fluffy owl to Bokuto, who gives it a big hug like he had given Akaashi just moments ago. 

“Akaashi, this one looks like you.” 

He pats the head of the owl. If Bokuto liked stuffed animals this much, Akaashi would have tried a bit harder for each throw for ring toss. 

“What? I hardly see the resemblance.” Staring at the barn owl, Akaashi tilts his head. _I look like that?_

Bokuto pokes his finger at the owl’s eyebrows. He might have imagined it, but the stuffed owl could have given a sigh of resignation at the touch. Oddly enough, rather than an air of predatory pride, this owl has a more subdued and quiet presence. 

“Are you kidding me? The eyebrows—they’re totally like yours.”

“He’s right.” The clerk, who had been pretty much silent this entire time, has sided with Bokuto. 

Akaashi shoots him an annoyed glance. _Time to move along._ Akaashi stands behind Bokuto, pushing him forward with his two arms so they can move along to enjoy the rest of the festival. Bokuto obliges, walking forward while cradling the owl under one of his arms. 

“Is this payback for saying you look like that penguin at the aquarium?”

“NO! But it does look like you! Thanks ‘Kaashi, owl-Akaashi is going right in my bed.” 

Bokuto stops right in his tracks, perhaps for once realizing that his words can be construed differently than he intends. The image of Bokuto, with his hair down—the way Akaashi wants to see it again, cuddling with owl-Akaashi as he falls asleep, materializes as a daydream that he will undoubtedly revisit. 

“I—I—I didn’t mean anything weird—by—” 

The man of steel and pure-hearted conviction is reduced to a pile of stammers and flustered, unfinished phrases. Realizing his grave has been dug even deeper, because he can’t continue his sentence to explain _why_ that had been a “weird” comment, Bokuto hides his face behind owl-Akaashi as a sign of surrender.

For once, Akaashi is the least self-conscious of the two. Because Bokuto lacks any composure at present, Akaashi is the picture of serenity in comparison. 

_You can do it. Just tell him now. That it’s okay to say things like that because, because—_

“Bokuto-san, it’s okay. I li—” 

“Akaashi, I’m actually going to turn into a puddle right now! I’m not—I’m WHOLESOME, I promise!” 

He’d have to tell him another time. It probably wouldn’t be wise to confess to Bokuto when he was in an emotional state like this. This is the very first time Akaashi has seen Bokuto this way, so he needs to proceed with caution. If it happens again, Akaashi will be prepared for it. 

Akaashi conjures up a distraction: “Let’s go pick a spot to watch the fireworks.” 

This time, Akaashi takes Bokuto’s hand in his to lead him in the direction that multiple wooden signs point in, reading “This way for fireworks!” 

Nodding, Bokuto follows Akaashi through the rows of stalls, further still to a large clearing with a grass field. Scattered picnic blankets and towels are already set up, early festival-goers have already pitched camp for the night. The firework display is the cherry-on-top of the night at a festival, so it pays to be prepared. 

The night is young. Bokuto and Akaashi settle into a patch of grass, thankfully dry enough to excuse the fact that they hadn’t brought anything to sit on. Bokuto sits cross-legged, holding owl-Akaashi in his lap. They’re still holding hands, because Bokuto had not let go when Akaashi had started to sit down. 

A few stray fireflies meander past the two, lazily chasing after each other. Long strands of soft grass tickle Akaashi’s clothed knees. It’s not quite dark enough for the display to start, so he deduces that there is some time to wait. Families and other couples around them chat in hushed tones, maintaining the soothing spirit of the early evening. 

Bokuto squeezes Akaashi’s hand a bit to draw his attention, “’Kaashi, I’ve figured out my message recently.”

“The message for your viewers?”

“Yep. It’s not really one message. I’ve already been doing it this whole time.” 

The early evening sky is a rock-candy combination of navy blue and a lavender purple. The moon is mysteriously absent from this vantage point, but the hues of the young night are the star of the show for now. 

“Everything is supposed to be shared. People make each other better. You’re only as good as your best competitor, your friends are the ones who make you smile and laugh, and it’s a lot more fun when you see something great if there’s someone right next to you to say, ‘Hey, look at that!’ …You know?”

What a perfect way to describe the very center of Bokuto’s being. Thankful for everyone and everything, the almost juvenile fascination that Bokuto has for every ingredient of life’s joys and experiences—yet he can only truly be at his best when he’s with others. Bokuto is authentically beautiful as himself. Yet his full form, his best self, shines the most vividly for the way he treats people. 

“I do know. It’s wonderful that you have realized your message. That’s important to remember.” 

Another hand-squeeze. It’s followed by, “Have you thought about it for your writing?”

“I’d like to think so.”

The revelation about the reason for his own writing had come to him early one morning after having woken from accidentally falling asleep at his desk, trying to get in his latest thoughts before bed. Akaashi had been scrambling, typing with no tomorrow, to write down his latest feelings from one of his ‘dates’ with Bokuto as if to purge every minute detail and sensation from his overloaded brain before he could fail to remember any of them. 

“Mine’s a bit more selfish, I’m afraid. I write to preserve my truth. The written word is a record and a time capsule for everything I knew to be true at the time I wrote. My own truth is all I know, and it changes from time to time, depending on what I’ve learned and who I become. It’s a way I can learn from myself, and a way that others can reach into my own thoughts and pluck out what they need from it, too.” 

An undeniable, long-forgotten sting in Akaashi’s stomach had surfaced by turning the pages of his tearstained journal entries. Journal entries he had dusted off from an old box after Sugawara had reminded him of his old piece about his high school love. Line upon line of raw and uninhibited emotion lifted from the messy handwriting, directly into Akaashi’s frenzied pupils, which ate up every word to relive his first heartbreak. Head-dizzying heartache and buried bitterness dredged from the recesses of Akaashi’s most distant memories, because of his own writing. Writing made a decade feel like yesterday. 

“You have pictures to remember what you looked like, and that can change over time with height, losing your baby fat, or growing out your hair. But there’s no way for you to keep the way you thought, the way you see the world—unless you write it down.”

Akaashi makes a mental note to write down his night with Bokuto as soon as he gets back. 

“Can I read your writing sometime?” 

After a moment of hesitation, “Okay. Next time you come over, Bokuto-san.”

“Really!?” 

“It would not be advantageous to be insincere about that to someone who lives right across the street from me.”

Bokuto laughs, his own body shaking owl-Akaashi as well. 

_Can I tell him now? I feel ready._

Akaashi commands every limb in his body to relax. Ready to go, he takes one last deep breath to get him through this moment and finally get it out. 

Once again, his best efforts are unexpectedly derailed: 

“’Kaashi, I have to go use the restroom. Can you watch owl-san while I’m gone?”

To depart, Bokuto lets go of Akaashi’s hand and delicately places owl-Akaashi on Akaashi’s lap as he stands up. Owl-Akaashi is exceptionally soft to the touch, a comfortable new presence balanced on Akaashi’s legs. 

Perhaps the fates had decided he was not supposed to confess to Bokuto today. Well, they had been fake-dating for a few months by now. One more day would not hurt. His eyes follow Bokuto as he starts to jog away. 

“Hurry back.”

“You bet!” 

When Bokuto’s profile disappears from his line of sight, Akaashi turns to the plush in his lap. He picks it up and holds it directly out from his chest, facing himself. The inquisitive eyebrows on the owl are shaped in a perpetual furrow. Akaashi decides that owl-san is safe enough to confide in. His beak is sewn shut, after all. 

“Owl-san, will I ever be able to tell him?” 

Silence. _I’m in over my head, talking to a stuffed owl._

It’s unusually quiet around him, since Bokuto and Akaashi had chosen a spot further out from others to get a better view. He takes the time to calm down and diffuse the internal feelings and pent-up energy from all three of his foiled confessions of his overwhelming, undebatable, immense infatuation with Bokuto. 

His heart jolts from a loud _pop_ , followed by a series of cheers. The firework show has started. It’s a shame that Bokuto isn’t back yet, but the show only escalates from the beginning. Hopefully Bokuto is back for the best parts of the show. 

The first fireworks are already impressive, single explosions spraying the purple sky with showers of sparks. Formerly quiet and hushed, the field now hosts a whole array of sounds from children clapping to adults whooping at the new display. Everyone loses themselves in the chaotic atmosphere in their own pocket of the field. Any scream could be shout and blocked out by the explosions. _Anything at all_ can be said, and no one would hear. 

_Why not._ Akaashi stands up, still holding owl-san straight out from his chest. He draws in the deepest breath he can.

“I-“ _BANG._

“ADORE.” _BOOM._

“YOU” _POW._

“BOKUTO-SAN.” _POP._

One to make up for the time he had almost-confessed post-takoyaki treat. That had been exhilarating. His yells had been answered by the unforgiving thundering of the fireworks.

Feeling a bit braver, Akaashi hops up in excitement, livened by the motion and the weightlessness of being able to profess his feelings, even if it wasn’t to Bokuto. _It’ll be good practice._ From the small hop, owl-san’s plush wings flap from the brief flight.

“YOU” _CRACKLE._

“AMAZE” _FIZZ._

“ME” _WHAM._

“ALWAYS.” _BOOM._

Another to replace the thwarted admission of love before Bokuto had become flustered about his comment in regard to owl-Akaashi inhabiting his bed. The sentiment of his second firework-fueled confession had been accurate but didn’t fully capture how he felt about Bokuto. It wasn’t strong enough. Akaashi decided to give himself one more chance before Bokuto returns.

“Owl-san, this is how I will say it when the moment is right.” 

A flurry of fireworks whistle into the sky. This one had way more fireworks than the last, whistles almost deafening. The crowd _ooh_ ’s in anticipation. On that cue, Akaashi once again turns to the owl-Akaashi in his hands, trusty-confidante. His nerves steel and he’s finally ready to shout his final declaration:

“BOKUTO-SAN,” _BANG._

“YOU’RE” _CRACKLE._

“MY” _BOOM._

“REAL” _BANG._

“LOVE” _WHOOSH._

“STORY.” _POW._

_Perfect._ Clearing his throat, Akaashi gives owl-san a grateful pat and turns behind him so he can set owl-san on the grass to wait for Bokuto. Except he doesn’t have to wait.

“I… am?” 

What Akaashi sees is a shocked Bokuto, eyes completely wide, jaw-dropped, hands slack at his sides. Akaashi loses his grip, and owl-san bounces on the grass. The cheers of the crowd and the explosions of fireworks might as well be thousands of miles away—they’re only muted hums and buzzes. 

The answer, which has been written on his sleeve, slapped on his forehead, and danced in his dreams makes its way through his lips. Though he’s tremoring, though he’s dizzy, though he’s afraid beyond his own wits—he’s never been more sure of anything. 

“Yes.”

Bokuto bounds up to him, a ball of white-hot passion, grabbing his hand as he speaks almost faster than Akaashi can listen. 

“AKAASHI, that was so cool. You—you have no idea how much I love you. I wanted this to always be real, but I didn’t want to mess it up. I always go full-force into things, but with you it felt like I shouldn’t do that, or I’d mess it up too early—HECK, I WANT TO DO THAT TOO!” 

The familiar whistle of yet another set of fireworks sounds off, signaling the incoming barrage. 

Steady and sure of himself, Bokuto looks at the night sky, eyes wide with wonder and smile full of confidence. He lets go of Akaashi hand and steadies both of his own on top of Akaashi’s shoulders. His fiery gaze demands Akaashi to meet it. 

Once the tumultuous series of fireworks explode, he gestures with his right hand to the night sky:

“THE” _BAM._

“WORLD” _CRASH._

“IS” _POW._

“YOU” _FIZZ._

“AND” _POW._

“ME” _POP._

_Perfect._ Even more perfect than Akaashi could have ever phrased it. Beyond perfect. The words are engraved in his own brain. They won’t ever need to be written down on paper. He can’t stop smiling, full face of teeth, content cheeks pushing his own eyes shut in bliss. Bokuto draws him close for a hug, Akaashi can feel Bokuto smiling into his hair.

They pull apart to sit down for the finale, which must be about to start since there seems to a brief pause. 

Lacing his fingers through Akaashi’s, Bokuto asks, “Didja even hear me sneak up behind you? Was that a plan?”

His face a tomato, Akaashi vehemently tells the truth: “No! I had absolutely no idea! …How much did you hear?” 

If Bokuto has heard all three of his confessions, Akaashi might have gotten his feelings off his chest—but he would pay the price of dying from humiliation. 

“All of it!” 

Akaashi has to scooch his glasses further down his nose to avoid them from fogging up, because his face has never been more heated. 

There’s an unabashed giggle coming from Bokuto as he stares at the sky, waiting for the firework finale. 

“This may just be the best day of my life so far.” 

A chorus of gasps hints at the start of the last explosion for the festival’s firework show. At first, there are a few tiny fireworks that explode, flowering before dissolving back into a puff of smoke, faint outlines the only evidence of their journeys. 

Then, barely a few seconds apart each, powerful explosion one after the other bloom in the night sky. 

Can it even be called a night sky? 

The sky—the sky is so full, blooming with fireworks as far as Akaashi’s eyes can see. It’s hard to focus on any one firework—it’s way for Shimoda to show-off. _We burn the brightest,_ the fireworks boom and boast, brazenly ignorant of their fleeting existence. Glittering orange, white, red, blue, and pink—there was even one in the shape of a happy face, if one caught it fast enough. 

The combined power of the fireworks lights up the entire field as bright as day. 

The man next to him is illuminated. Unmistakable face and bright smile creating their own light, not only reflecting that of the fireworks. He’s his own spark, Akaashi’s personal beacon. 

There’s nothing new or unfamiliar to Akaashi about the sight of Bokuto. This is how Bokuto deserves to be seen—every aspect of him lit up—no shadows, nothing hidden. _The world is you and me._ _My world is you._ Akaashi squeezes Bokuto’s hand. 

Smiling, Bokuto teases, “If we’re real boyfriends now, this would be a nice time for a real boyfriend to get a kiss.” 

He’d let Bokuto give him his first kiss on the lips, since he had been the one to confess first. Though Akaashi isn’t one to care about “firsts” too much, he knows Bokuto is the type to want to create his own with Akaashi. So, he decides on the next best thing: 

“As you wish, Bokuto-san.” 

Akaashi leans over and plants the most tender of kisses on the apple of Bokuto’s cheek. Bokuto is frozen still, as though he doesn’t want to accidentally move and disturb the kiss. He lets his lips linger on Bokuto’s cheek until he can feel a warm blush form underneath them. Currently unable to speak, Bokuto is way more sheepish than Akaashi would have expected from his cheery request. 

Poor Bokuto. Akaashi Keiji will be the death of him.

✧ ✧ ✧

“Bokuto, chill OUT.”

With a grunt, Bokuto reluctantly sets down his bar into its proper bracket. He had just done eight reps of a weight that was ten pounds past his personal best. It wasn’t a big deal to him. He could go for way more. Daichi and Kuroo pat him on the back. 

“But I feel so good today, Daichi! Are you jealous?”

At this comment, Daichi jolts. It might have been a little too accurate of an assessment. He and Bokuto are used to going head-to-head with the weights on leg day. Daichi curses the Greek gods, who have obviously given Bokuto some of their physique. Daichi’s competitive, but that doesn’t mean he’ll kill himself by trying to go at the weight Bokuto had set for himself. Bokuto is a monster. 

“No, well. Yes. But I feel like you’re going to tear your muscles from the speed you’re going at.”

It’s then that Daichi remembers a small end-of-practice meeting with their coach. This season, their ace had not been performing as well. He’s retiring next year, and his older—well, old for the sport—age was starting to catch up with him during professional matches. He wonders if Bokuto misses playing actual games. 

“You should try out for the team next year. We could really use another ace spiker.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Daichi remembers Kuroo is there, too. Nervously, he glances at Kuroo, who he hasn’t talked about volleyball with in a long time. Kuroo gives him a grin and a shrug. _It’s alright._

Kuroo gets in position to lift, but says, “I’d like to see Bokuto back in a game, too. I’d come cheer.” 

He means it. 

“Oikawa and I weren’t enough for you to come?” Daichi fires back, in a scolding tone he doesn’t mean. He’s not sure what’s happened, but Kuroo seems to be perfectly fine with talking about volleyball. It feels like old times.

“Nothing personal. Bokuto’s my best friend, after all.” 

With a grunt, Kuroo lifts the bar up and Bokuto moves to the side to standby as a spotter. Bokuto’s eyes still follow the steady up and down of Kuroo’s weights, but he directs his next question to Daichi. 

“Is there really? Is there really space for me?” 

_Bingo._ He just needs to reel Bokuto in. 

“There is. If there wasn’t, we’d still make space for you.” Daichi reassures him, because Bokuto’s talents aren’t just found anywhere under the sun. And he would do anything to get his best friend back on the court with him. 

Kuroo swears, only getting to six lifts before having to let down. Legs were not his specialty. It’s okay, next session will be abs, where Kuroo leaves them in the dust. 

“Okay, I’ll think about it! Wow, I’m on top of the world! Nothing can bring me down.”

Bokuto flexes his arms, but he’s obviously referencing the pile of great things going on in his life: his absurdly strong personal best today, Daichi’s offer to join the team as an ace, and yesterday’s date with Akaashi. Daichi and Kuroo had dutifully listened to Bokuto’s recounting of the story earlier in their workout, when they had been exercising their calves. 

“…I still can’t believe Akaashi admitted his feelings first. He seems more like the quiet type.” Kuroo muses, also knowing that Bokuto is talking about more than just volleyball and exercising. 

“You owe me twenty dollars, Kuroo.” Daichi teases, clapping him on the back. Kuroo rolls his eyes, before pushing Daichi to the weights, reminding him that it is his turn to go. Daichi chuckles, knowing that this is just a distraction from the fact that Kuroo has lost their bet. 

Sighing, Daichi begins to pile more weight to the ends of the bar. 

Bokuto clarifies, “Well—he didn’t know I was listening. But I was surprised too! I wanted be the one to confess first, but I’m not even mad about it—” 

The sound of Kuroo’s ringtone interrupts Bokuto’s chatter. Kuroo is startled but fishes the phone out of his pocket. Daichi sees a cheeky grin on Kuroo’s face as he swipes the answer button, then realizes that the call is from Kenma. _Lovebirds…_

“Hey Kenma. What’s—” 

Kuroo’s grin is wiped off his face almost as fast as it had formed. His jaw is slack and Daichi notices his breathing grow shallower as he listens to more of what Kenma is saying through the speaker. Bokuto and Daichi share a confused look. _Do you know what’s going on?_ _No, I thought you would._

“What!? Of course. Is—is he okay?” 

Daichi stops putting weights on the bar. Something’s definitely wrong. Bokuto and Daichi sit down on the bench and quietly wait for Kuroo to finish his call. 

“We’ll be there as soon as we can. Yes, they’re with me right now. We’ll be leaving right now. See you there.” 

“Bokuto, Daichi…” 

Kuroo bends down from where he stands, clutching the ends of his messy hair in his hands. 

His eyes are out of focus and Daichi knows that he recognizes this look Kuroo wears—but can’t quite place when he has seen it before. His breathing is uneven, but not from the workout. 

Bokuto and Daichi rush to his side, stepping up from their seats on the weight bench. Bokuto puts his hand on Kuroo’s shoulder. Daichi crouches in front of Kuroo to try to bring him to the present moment. 

“Kuroo, what happened?” 

“That was Kenma. Sugawara-san told him that Oikawa’s in the hospital. Concussion, and he hasn’t woken up since last night.” 

“Let’s go.” 

Daichi and Bokuto lift Kuroo up from under his shoulders, and the three immediately make the nearest exit to the gym and run to Daichi’s car. Everything is a blur and sounds are reduced to foggy drones of incomprehensible flatness. Daichi has never driven past the speed limit before. Today, he pounds the pedal as soon as they leave the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this confession planned since the beginning and I'm so glad I finally got to write it. I wanted Akaashi to say 'I love you' in his own way. 
> 
> Side note: Get yourself a friend like Daichi. They are the ones who plan the group dinners, tell you to break up with your toxic boyfriend, and will pat you on the back and give you a hug even when you don't listen to their advice the first time. :P


	9. Kindling of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa Tooru wakes up in the hospital with a dull pain in his head. He's going to regret complaining about the initial headache, because there are three others headed his way. Meanwhile, Bokuto is a doting boyfriend who can't get enough of his "real" boyfriend as of late.

The face of an exhausted, bald man in a white lab coat is not the ideal visage to witness your dramatic return to consciousness. 

_Not even a cute nurse?_

The antiseptic smell of chemical cleanliness stings his nostrils, causing Oikawa’s nose to wrinkle in distaste. His body feels like a lump of bricks, but otherwise he feels as though he’s woken from a deep hibernation. Finally noticing that he’s in a hospital bed, the first thing he does is wiggle his fingers and hinge his knuckles. Each one reflexively bends and bounces back, each one as normal. Relieved, he sinks back into his tiny pillow with a small sigh. 

“Good. You’re awake.” The doctor could have been a smidge more enthusiastic. 

The nonplussed doctor checks off a few boxes, scribbles down some notes, and then abruptly shines a pocket light into Oikawa’s eyes—swishing it back and forth to test his response. He asks Oikawa a few questions to have Oikawa confirm his identity, his family members, and the date. This irritates Oikawa, because he has no idea how long he has been in the hospital. 

“No slurred speech. Another good sign.” 

A few more crosses are drawn on the doctor’s checklist of never-ending symptoms. 

Acknowledging Oikawa’s obvious question, the doctor takes a deep breath and launches into Oikawa’s personal medical history for the last forty-eight hours: “You’ve been unconscious for almost a day and you have a mild concussion. Fortunately, there’s no signs of permanent brain damage. Since you woke up faster than expected, I anticipate a fast healing time. However, because you were unconscious, we still want to monitor you in-hospital for a week and may extend it to two weeks depending on your progress.” 

Silent, Oikawa knows that he is lucky to be alive and well. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel inconvenienced by everything that has happened, which he can’t quite remember. Everything is fuzzy, and he’s too tired to rack his presumably bruised brain for the answers. 

“How do you feel?”

“A small headache… It’s safe for me to play volleyball, right?” 

“Is that your main concern?” The doctor’s face is blank, but Oikawa can sense the way he loops in Oikawa with the rest of indignant athletes who will not heed their doctor’s instructions. Oikawa is no fool, he will listen. 

There’s no brag in his voice, but rather a desperation, “Yes. It is one of my only concerns. I play professionally.” 

“We’ll send a medical summary to your coach. They should take it easy on you for the two weeks back after you’re discharged. If he notifies me of any pain or problem he observes, then you’re back here.” Coach would undoubtedly yell at Oikawa for landing in the hospital the first day he’s back, so Oikawa relishes the fact that he has some time to hide from him and the rest of the team before making his appearance back on the court. 

“That’s all from me for now. I’ll be back later today to check on you. But right now, there are some other people who are here to see how you’re doing.” 

The doctor excuses himself, leaving the door opening and gesturing to people outside who Oikawa cannot see. 

There’s the sound of feet scrabbling, and then Oikawa sees Bokuto, Daichi, and Kuroo fight their way through the door. The three get stuck in the doorway, big and tall bodies ungracefully racing to see Oikawa and ask how he’s doing. Once they’re in the room, Bokuto sits on the foot of Oikawa’s bed to give him some space, while Daichi and Kuroo bring chairs over to sit next to the bedside. Kuroo’s unusually tense, on the verge of tears. 

_This must be déjà vu for him…_ Oikawa reaches out his hand to Kuroo’s and pats it. Kuroo looks up at him and does his best at a reassuring smile, which is more akin to a watery grimace. Unlike Kuroo, Oikawa had been somehow saved by his lucky star—he could still stand on the court again. He’d have to be well again, to play well again, if not for himself, for Kuroo Tetsuroo. 

“Doctor said I should be fine in about a week or two,” Oikawa directs his voice at Kuroo, who instantaneously relaxes upon hearing the doctor’s forecast, “but I’ll need to take it easy here before I can go back to practice. Please bring me some good food!” Oikawa brings his two hands together and bowing his head slightly, a humble but only half-facetious request for some flavorful food to rescue him from the hospital fare. 

Closer to his normal self, Kuroo snickers, “Look at him, still ordering us around. He must feel better than we think.” 

Daichi agrees, “That’s what he gets for flaking out on leg day. Coach is going to kick your ass.” 

Daichi is strangely talented at always reminding Oikawa of people and responsibilities he would not want to think about. Namely, Coach, who he presumes he will receive an earful from when he inevitably receives a call asking what Oikawa was doing to get a concussion in the middle of the season. The nagging resemblance between Coach and Daichi has always been clear. 

Oikawa reminds his apparently forgetful teammates, “I was _unconscious!_ ” which draws a laugh from all three of them. “And I’m Coach’s favorite, so he won’t!” He crosses his arms and pouts, turning his head to the side to avoid looking at his tormentors, who are having way too much fun with this. 

Always the kindest of the group—which isn’t saying much, Bokuto pats Oikawa’s leg, “Don’t worry Oikawa, I’ll visit you every day!” Bokuto has always reminded Oikawa of a younger brother, even though he was technically his senior. It’s rather odd to have the younger brother of the group be the one to volunteer to be the daily caretaker. Then again, this is hardly a typical situation for Oikawa. 

Oikawa’s eye catches his bedside tray, presumably for any patient medicine or food. On the tray lies a paper cup half-full of water holding a dainty white daisy. _Did a nurse put that there?_ Bokuto follows his line of sight and tilts his head upon seeing the daisy. 

“Who brought you the pretty flower, Oikawa?” 

Unfortunately, he has no answer for Bokuto: “I—I don’t know. That’s the first I’ve seen it.”

“Akaashi did.” A quiet, low voice sounds from the doorway. At the mention of Akaashi’s name, Bokuto perks up, spiky hair lifting toward the ceiling. 

It’s Kenma, whose presence has not been announced until this moment. Now that all eyes are on him, he lowers his head a bit to deflect the sudden attention. Game console in hand, the pause screen of his most recent endeavor blinks, impatiently expecting the player to get back to his game. He stares from each one of them to the lone daisy on the tin tray. 

Kenma explains, “He stopped by before going to work. Also to bring by some coffee for Sugawara, who has been here since last night. Sugawara’s sleeping on a chair in the hallway right now.” Kenma looks outside, presumably in Sugawara’s direction to make sure he’s still there. 

Oikawa cannot wrap his head around the fact that Sugawara had slept over at the hospital, “Since… last night?”

Kenma’s eyebrow raises as he reminds Oikawa, “He brought you here.” 

His lips on Sugawara’s, their bodies clashing into each other, needing to be closer, closer than mere touching, the hazy daze post-best-kiss-Oikawa-Tooru had ever had—all of these details rush back to his head, triggering a sharp pain in the back of his head. His best kiss performance in his extensive experience, one that he would have continued, _deepened_ , if not for—if not for what? 

_Oh right,_ and the less-than-glamorous finale, which ended up with amazing acrobatics by Oikawa himself, landing on the unforgiving asphalt. Oikawa is routinely unpredictable, but one thing is for sure: he always leaves a lasting impression. This time, on his own skull. 

Kenma offers, “Do you want me to wake him up?” Bokuto, Kuroo, and Daichi look expectantly at Oikawa, who is still coming to terms with his flashbacks. 

“NO!” Oikawa groans at the shared look that Kuroo and Daichi swap with each other. He knows what they’re thinking: _What a damn mess._

To buy himself some time, Oikawa holds out his hand to try and cover up his outburst, “I mean, hold on a second.” 

Kenma shrugs, his own way of saying, _suit yourself_ and disappears beyond the doorframe. 

Resting his right temple in his fingers, he groans, “Well, the last thing I remember—before—you know, is that I finally got to kiss him. Then, it’s just all black.” The convenient, intentional omission of tripping on the sidewalk is to spare his last shred of pride, one that Kuroo, Bokuto, and Daichi immediately poke holes at unknowingly. 

Daichi is beside himself with laughter, wiping away a tear as Kuroo smugly pats Oikawa’s hand in false compliment. _You finally made a move!_ There won’t be an end to this. Whereas Daichi is brutally honest in his jests, Kuroo’s strategic sarcasm sneaks in from the sides. Hollowed out, Oikawa begins to dissociate. Anything he says will only make things worse and he doesn’t have his usual snark to defend his undefendable situation. 

Even his saving grace, Bokuto, joins in, asking an innocent question that rocks Oikawa right through the ribcage, “You’re telling me Sugawara gave you such a great kiss that it actually knocked you out!?” The hoots of laughter that escape from Daichi and Kuroo only grow more raucous upon this question. 

It’s definitely good Oikawa had not revealed what had happened, even if they had guessed the vague details—he would be buried with this secret. He could already see it on his gravestone, _Oikawa Tooru: Death by Kiss_ , carved in the marble at his fiendish friends’ request. 

“NO! Please— _shut up!_ ”

✧ ✧ ✧

There’s a biting crick in his neck when Sugawara is roused from his light nap on the stiff wooden bench in the hallway. How unfortunate, he hadn’t expected to fall asleep and miss the doctor’s morning check-in to hear how Tooru was doing, since he had stayed up all night sitting next to Tooru, who was unconscious in his hospital bed.

Waiting and willing Tooru to open his eyes had depleted his reserves. The image of Tooru’s unresponsive face, slack and soul in a place far, far away is one that Sugawara could not shake from his mind. The beeps from the heart monitor had been the only reassurance through the long night. Reluctantly, he had only vacated to the hallway in the morning after Akaashi and Kenma had arrived, so he could freshen up and enjoy his coffee. Too bad the coffee hadn’t worked. 

Sitting up, he hears the tap of Kenma’s fingers on his game console. Kenma looks up, “He’s awake now.”

“Oh!? Why didn’t you wake me up?” 

Sugawara rubs the sleep from his eyes and tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. It’s the least he can do, since he’s still in yesterday’s work clothes. Kenma turns off his console and side-eyes the door to Tooru’s hospital room. 

“His friends were all here, and you know they are a handful. But they left about ten minutes ago.” 

Though Sugawara feels regret for not being there when Tooru had woken up, it would have been best not to overwhelm him with so many people at once. He can’t imagine the collective volume of the room with Bokuto, Kuroo, Daichi, and Tooru all at once—was it really possible that Sugawara had slept through all of that noise? 

“Thanks for waiting with me.”

“No problem. It’s my day off.” 

_Tuesday is your day off?_ Then, Sugawara remembers Kenma is self-employed and can adjust his own work hours when needed. Must be nice. Kenma stands up and nods at Sugawara, a farewell. Sugawara appreciatively smiles back at him before Kenma turns to take his leave. His steps fade out as he makes his way across the shiny linoleum. 

It’s time to see Tooru, which is obvious—it’s all he had been here for in the first place. With a few raps at the side of the doorway, Sugawara enters the room, to see Tooru, who stirs from his place in bed. He doesn’t sit all the way up, which pains Sugawara because it means he must still be recovering. Perhaps his visit from the others had tired him out. 

Though Tooru is still objectively an attractive person, Sugawara is not accustomed to the sight on the hospital bed. Tooru’s bouncy hair is lifted from his forehead by a large bandage that wraps around his forehead to the back of his skull. He wishes Tooru would stand up and start teasing him, just for something to feel normal again. Sugawara takes the seat next to Tooru’s bedside and sits. Tooru’s eyes follow his every move since he appeared in the doorway. 

“Who knew that ending up in the hospital would be the most effective way to get you stay with me?” 

Sugawara clucks his tongue, “I knew you were high maintenance when I first met you.” 

“You better not take a picture of me like this. It’s a disgrace to mankind if I look anything less than my gold standard.” Tooru expects this to get a rise out of Sugawara, but it only makes his shoulder slump more, because Tooru _knows_ that he doesn’t look his best. He commands to think of a clever comeback or a joke to lighten the mood. He can’t—it wouldn’t come out right because he’s too worried. 

“So…” 

“So?” 

Sugawara chokes out, “Are you going to be okay?” 

Tooru’s quiet—definitely because he hadn’t expected Sugawara to lose his composure. He doesn’t mention it, but instead explains his prognosis. 

“The doctor says I should stay here to rest for one to two weeks, but I should be fine. I’ll admit—it was…scary when I didn’t know if I could play volleyball, but after I knew it would probably be fine, I was alright.” 

Sugawara lets out a deep breath—it would be fine, even though Tooru was sitting in the hospital, despite Sugawara believing he had been on the verge of death or an eternal comatose state just a few hours ago. It would be “alright,” despite the fact that Sugawara could have had a hand in ending Oikawa Tooru’s illustrious and far-reaching volleyball career. Tooru was alive and well. That was all that mattered in this moment—not any of Sugawara’s guilt. 

His body starts to catch up with his mind. The deep breath turns into several shallow ones, his brain reminding Sugawara to breathe—he’s been holding in his breath the entire time. _In, out, in, out, in, out…_

“Hey, it’s really fine. Although it’s nice to be fussed over by you, I’m not used to it yet.” 

Tooru places a hand on Sugawara’s shoulder, which he can barely reach from his position on the bed. 

_Fussed over?_ Sugawara had been _worried out of his own mind._ Maybe he should have just left Tooru in front of the hospital entrance—he wouldn’t have been able to, but he would have liked to think that he could have. The lifeless sack of potatoes Tooru had been as Sugawara had slung him over his shoulder to carry him to the emergency room had frightened him beyond belief. As soon as the medics had taken over, Tooru had been blocked from view, leaving Sugawara to pace in the hallway for half of the night. When Tooru was finally reeled into a room, Sugawara had followed behind, but his million questions weren’t answered because the doctor would come in the morning. 

It hadn’t been until three in the morning that Sugawara had finally gotten the good sense to call Akaashi and tell him that he would need to work _The Quill_ by himself, explaining everything. Sugawara had let the tears fall at this point. He had always been a quiet crier. Akaashi wouldn’t be able to tell through the phone. Instead, Sugawara had let the tears stream down his cheeks and neck, not daring to wipe them away. That would acknowledge their presence and also possibly alert Akaashi through the speaker. 

Unable to contain himself, Sugawara attacks Tooru’s mattress with his hands, which stands in place for Tooru himself. It would have been too cruel to hit Tooru. Tooru lifts his hand from Sugawara’s shoulder to shield himself from potential danger. 

“You’re so annoying. So stupid. So ego-centric.” 

Each insult lands as he fists a punch into the mattress. With each one, his punches soften, heart not really in it. He hates how he is only realizing how the extent to which he had been worried about Oikawa Tooru. It wasn’t about the guilt or being held responsible for the repercussions. He would have taken the blame for it all. 

He had only wanted to confirm that Tooru would be able to be Tooru again—and Sugawara was too dense to figure it out until now. 

Tooru yelps, “Don’t damage the goods!” 

Sugawara counts off more on his fingers instead: “So arrogant. So haughty.”

Tooru quips, “A hottie?”

“So persistent. Stubborn. I was worried. You can’t see that?” Sugawara runs out of steam. The verbal admission serves more as mental self-persuasion. 

As Tooru stares at Sugawara gasping for breath, he apologizes, “Okay—I’m sorry. I just have never been on the receiving end of your concern. Go on. You seem like you have a lot built up right now. But maybe don’t beat up my mattress. It didn’t do anything to you.” He’s not hurt and gestures at himself, steeling himself for more insults. But Sugawara won’t do that anymore. 

Sugawara turns to Tooru, bringing his chair closer so that Oikawa Tooru can hear him loud and clear. 

“Why are you the only one who can keep up with me? Why do you never tell me to stop being myself?” They’re not questions meant to be answered, Sugawara doesn’t give Tooru the chance to answer anyways.

Sugawara struggles with the next one, “Why are you the one to make me realize that I can be unreasonable?”

He balls his fists in his lap. 

“I took the first step and finally relied on someone else—this morning I called Akaashi and told him he’d have to work alone today, maybe even tomorrow and the next day too. And—he wasn’t even upset. He understood. He even stopped by—the daisy means ‘get well soon’, by the way.” 

Tooru looks at the flower, which Akaashi had brought along with a thermos of coffee for Sugawara early in the morning. 

Considerate, careful, and peculiar. Akaashi Keiji. It was the sight of Akaashi that had taught him what he admits next to Tooru, “I can fall back on others when I want to, not because I need to.” Akaashi had been his friend for longer than he could remember—Kenma too—and today had been the first day he had to rely on both of them for a favor. It had been so easy to. 

A lesson that Oikawa Tooru had been trying to get him to learn all along. 

“I need someone to tend to my fire, not put it out. Sometimes—no. Most times, you stoke it instead. You don’t mind the burns.” Sugawara, much like his inextinguishable personality, fires up as he takes Tooru’s hand from his shoulder and puts it on the bed. He plucks the daisy from the cup and opens Tooru’s hand to place it in his palm, closing Tooru’s fingers around the stem. 

“Please hurry up and get better.” 

Tooru’s eyes soften and he grips the stem with his fingers. It might be Sugawara’s imagination, but Tooru looks like a different person for a fleeting moment. Perhaps someone who looks just like Tooru, with a kinder smile. A bit older, more mature. _No,_ but this _is_ Tooru. 

Sugawara notices that Tooru is trying to sit up from his position from rest and rushes to help him sit up. Still holding the flower, Tooru looks up at Sugawara and starts to speak. 

“I’ll do my best… Does this mean—does this mean I won?” Oikawa Tooru is back to normal. 

“Maybe you can get a single chance, out of pity.” 

“Give me a break, I have a concussion! _Doesn’t anyone remember that?_ ”

“Yes, I know. I’m never going easy on you.” Sugawara lets out a laugh, an action that shouldn’t be hard but one that hasn’t happened for several hours. It’s surprisingly easy to do. He had just forgotten how to this morning. 

Sugawara sits back down, this time sitting himself even closer to Tooru’s head so that they can talk to each other easily. Tooru leans back into his pillow, not taking his eyes from Sugawara. Sitting up must have taken a lot from him. Sugawara clasps the back of Tooru’s hand, which is still clutched around the daisy. 

“Could you sing for me?” 

Tooru certainly knows how to make the most of his situation. He’d be insufferable from now on. Not really, but Sugawara would never admit that to anyone. 

Sugawara jokes, “Any other requests while you’re at it?”

“Actually—yes, I’m… still curious—where did you learn how to dance?” 

Sugawara had not been trained professionally, not in the slightest. As a brother who was much older than his sister, he had been easily convinced many times into playing her prince brother and accompanying her to the imaginary royal ball. Her clumsy steps led Sugawara to tell her to stand on his own socked feet, moving for both of them as they glided across their living room floor. He should thank his sister, for preparing him for life’s clumsiest dance dates from school, but also for being able to keep up with life’s most daring and bold—like Tooru. 

“Ah, I have a little sister. I’d have to stand in as prince for her when she was in that phase as a kid.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Any nurse at the hospital is accustomed the wide variety of noises that sound from patient rooms. Exclamations of pain, calls for nurses and aides, and quiet hums of doctor’s diagnoses for their patients are commonplace. Most of all, the rustle of scrubs, of tasks to be completed and wheelchairs to be pushed—the hustle and bustle—is the standard soundtrack of medicine.

Earlier this morning, the rowdy voices from Oikawa Tooru’s hospital room would be noticeable, but not too unusual. Patient family and friends were always a varied bunch, as were the patients themselves. 

Hospitals harbor many emotions, oftentimes those of the melancholy and desolate variety. The emotions that remind the doctors, nurses, and volunteers that the healthcare profession is worth it—are those that conjure faith and safety in a place where uncertainty is the steadfast rule. 

The sound coming from Oikawa Tooru’s room now is a faint, delicate one. It confuses a few nurses who make their daily afternoon rounds, but it’s not alarming, so they continue on their routes. It’s almost lost in the midst of the hospital, but if one strains their hearing, the alluring—glowing—singing can only be described as pure magic. 

Eyes closed, the brunet is not unconscious as he had been earlier. One might think he is in heavy slumber, but the opposite is true—he is intentionally heightening his senses—namely, hearing and touch. He’s in the process of healing, not one of the conventional, scientific kind. 

Holding his hand is a gentle man who sings to him with lullaby-worthy tones, but a trace of tiredness cannot be found on his face. No one would know the sleepless night he spent fretting over the same man. With each loving word sung, the man sends it the brunet’s way, fond vibrations that weave into the listener’s ears and make their home in his heart. The two are suspended in a daydream together. 

It is Prince Sugawara Koushi, serenading his ballroom boy, Tooru, who savors each sweet note he’s bestowed.

✧ ✧ ✧

In the middle of another late-night writing session, Akaashi gets a text from Bokuto, asking him if he has time to talk. This is codeword for “meet me outside in a minute”. Stretching from his chair, Akaashi decides he has been productive enough for the night and texts back a “sure” before saving his document and standing up to put on some shoes.

It had been a long day, but thankfully he had gotten a call in the afternoon from Sugawara, telling him that he and Oikawa were both “more than fine”. Everybody could rest a little easier. 

Akaashi grabs his cardigan on the way out, routine for meeting Bokuto in his front yard—as though he’s going to meet Bokuto. The front porch could mean anything: a real date, a pretend date, a walk to work together, or a Scout-involved disaster—like the first time they had met.

Opening his door, he finds Bokuto standing next to the little free library holding Scout’s leash, being sure that Scout keeps a respectful distance from Akaashi’s plants. Scout wags his tail in greeting to Akaashi and Bokuto smiles and waves to his boyfriend. _My favorites._ Akaashi closes the door behind him softly, to not disturb Kenma’s ongoing livestream, and makes his way to the two to give Scout a loving pet. 

There’s an anticipation in the air, signaling that Bokuto didn’t merely come to chat. Akaashi gives his full attention to Bokuto. 

“’Kaashi, how do you turn down an opportunity that feels too good to be true? Does that mean you’re making the wrong choice?” 

That sounded fairly serious. Akaashi inquires, “Oh? What is the situation?”

Bokuto swivels his head from left to right, then behind him at his own house to make sure no one is listening. The precaution seems unnecessary to Akaashi, because there’s no one else out on the street. He leans down and whispers into Akaashi’s ear. Akaashi’s eyes open in surprise, but then narrow as he considers what Bokuto tells him. He sees Bokuto’s dilemma. 

After about a minute of whispered explanations, Bokuto lifts his head from Akaashi’s ear. Akaashi is still ruminating, but he doesn’t see the immediate issue. 

“Ah, nothing is wrong with either… I’m sure you could handle both if you wanted to. Why do you want to turn it down?” 

“I feel like I had my run. I want to see where the other choice can take me.” His gaze is focused, but Akaashi can tell he is thinking about the future possibilities he has in store. He’s pure conviction. Akaashi realizes that Bokuto had already made his decision before consulting him but had wanted to see if Akaashi would believe the same way. If he looks like this, Bokuto’s gut instinct must be correct to follow. 

“Plus, I want to spend more time with you.” Bokuto wraps his arms around Akaashi as he says this. Akaashi has already grown accustomed to the more intimate displays of affection Bokuto uses now that they’re “officially” dating. However, it’s still fairly new territory to Akaashi. A second round of dating is just as butterfly-inducing as the first. Hugging Bokuto back, Akaashi feels Scout nuzzle his legs, not one to be left out of a hug. 

Akaashi reaches up and musses Bokuto’s hair, relishing the post-shower softness of it. 

“Then, I shouldn’t complain. You seem sure about this.”

“Yes! I am.”

“Then it feels right to me, too. Everyone will understand.” Bokuto nods emphatically upon hearing Akaashi’s agreement. Though his mind had been made up, it makes Bokuto feel better that Akaashi agrees. Reflected in his calmer demeanor, his broad shoulders release their tension and make his hug around Akaashi a little looser. 

With the issue settled, Bokuto launches into his next agenda, which is to get Akaashi to sleep over on a weeknight. This has been an ongoing plan of his. He’s already being greedy—Akaashi had already promised to sleep over this weekend. Seeing through the ruse, Akaashi denies—much to his own regret—because he knows he won’t escape Bokuto’s dangerous morning cuddles early enough to get to work on time… Because Akaashi has a conventional job, unlike many of the people around him! 

Akaashi jests, “Owl-san can keep you company until Friday.” Akaashi notes how owl-san had taken permanent residence in Bokuto’s room. 

“He already has been—wait, no he hasn’t! Nevermind! Gotta go, Akaashi!” 

_He actually does sleep with owl-san when I’m not there?!_

With that, Bokuto nearly steps on his own dog as he turns around to sprint to hide in his house. Akaashi doesn’t ever need to tease Bokuto, because Bokuto does a pretty good job of that himself. For a bulking man who could have easily carried Akaashi across the street with no problem, Akaashi seems to possess the upper hand. 

Akaashi loves his job. He really does. No one questions it. It’s his dream job, one that he’s been dedicated to for so long, and will probably grow old doing. If it weren’t for Bokuto though, he never would have understood what it means to be waiting for the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just a big fantasy I have of Suga being the loveliest singer. He knows it, too.
> 
> Hopefully everybody who had been previously worried about Oikawa's welfare is now put at ease :P 
> 
> My reference to Oikawa appearing kinder is essentially my way of saying that Suga sees Oikawa in a way that is similar to how Oikawa saw his own grandfather, Takemi, in the old photo in his grandmother's room. I'm not sure if it makes a lot of sense but I thought it was important that Oikawa is in fact a well-intentioned gentleman at times, like his grandfather was for his grandmother :)


	10. End in the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hinata is given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Kenma makes a new friend. Everyone has conversations in the car.

Bokuto puts his car in park next to a run-down bike shop on the beach boardwalk. The bikes out front are worn with old age, but are well-cared for and are sparkly clean, freshly wiped down. Tandem bikes are lined up behind the single-rider bicycles, roomy baskets to hold enough for a lavish beach picnic. An orange-haired man changing the chains on a bike recognizes Bokuto and deftly finishes his task quickly to hop over to the car, waving a farewell to the other shopkeeper on his way out. The man wipes his greased hands on the front of his jeans before opening the passenger side door. 

“Bokuto, where are we going?” 

Hinata Shouyou, scrappy twenty-three year-old with hair as flaming as his personality, hops into Bokuto’s car. Though Bokuto guesses that he rarely gets any sleep, Hinata never shows any sign of fatigue and running on fumes is his modus operandi. Radiating with energy, he can’t sit still in the passenger seat and fiddles with the radio and air conditioning buttons—but doesn’t actually change any of the settings by returning each one to its original position. Having known Hinata for a few months now, this is not something that Bokuto isn’t used to. 

Ever since he had met Hinata at the gym, he had received an email from Hinata via his YouTube business inquiry account, requesting another practice session together. Thankfully, the message wound up in Bokuto’s primary inbox the next morning, not filtered out by his email’s mysterious algorithm. It had been typed in a respectful manner, though with an unnecessary amount of exclamation points, signed with a _Your student, Hinata Shouyou_. 

From then on, the two had met every week to practice together. Bokuto had learned that Hinata had forewent a college education, taking on odd jobs—his favorite being the one local bike shop—to help his mother and sister cover their bills. Hinata came to the gym to blow off steam late at night, which he found most effective by playing volleyball, his only saving grace. The moment he had first watched Hinata spike, Bokuto was floored—while he didn’t have the strongest arm yet, he could _move_. Not only that, but his vertical was insane, and when he times his quick correctly, can get it past anyone because no one will be able to see the ball coming. It’s a particular kind of strength, one that is sneaky and unpredictable as opposed to Bokuto’s solid muscle and refined techniques. 

Upon further questioning, Hinata revealed he had played in high school, but volleyball as a professional career was not even in the picture when he graduated. He couldn’t abandon his mom and sister to pursue a pipe dream, as much as he still pined for it. For now, he takes solace in his gym practices with Bokuto. 

As Hinata buckles his seatbelt, Bokuto puts his car in drive and says casually, “Don’t freak out, but we’re going to Shimoda Stadium.” Hinata’s eyes light up with the strength of a thousand stars, which Bokuto can feel burning holes into the side of his right cheek. 

Living in Shimoda, one is bound to be well-acquainted with the Shimoda Sharks, the very volleyball team Daichi and Oikawa play for. Everyone has been to a game or cheered them on via local TV broadcast. The only small town with a major league team is undoubtedly proud of their Sharks. Sitting upon the side of one of the coastal hills, the homecourt and practice buildings are none other than the Shimoda Stadium and its arsenal of neighboring training facilities. 

“No way. _The_ Shimoda Stadium!?” Bokuto merges onto the main road, nodding. 

Hinata sits back in his chair, trying to think of why they’re going there. He throws out many guesses, “Are you there to meet your friends? No—I know! We’re filming a video.” Each of those is on-brand for Bokuto, but he laughs and simply shakes his head. Filming a tour of the Shimoda Stadium could be an interesting potential video, so Bokuto shelves that thought in the back of his mind before getting to why he’s really driving Hinata to a volleyball stadium. 

Hinata’s stare darts from car to car that pass by them outside the window as he waits for Bokuto tell him why they’re going. 

“No—that’s not it. Hinata, you’ve always wanted to play professionally, right?” 

Bokuto asks this with a light tone, but he’s being serious. He asks this question, even though he knows the answer. Hinata stills, with a sad wistfulness at the mention of his greatest ambition. Bokuto asks this question, because if Hinata even hesitates here, which he won’t, Bokuto will turn the car right around. They would not be in the car if Bokuto hadn’t anticipated what was to follow. 

“Of course, it’s my dream—it’s all I ever think about at my day job, I mean I like working at the bike repair shop but if I could play professionally and have the money to help out my family… I’d drop _everything_ in a heartbeat.”

Hinata’s eyes well up with passionate tears, but he won’t cry. This is a fate he’s accepted quite a long time ago. There’s been enough time for him to come to terms with it, but perhaps not enough to let it go. Instead, he falls silent and plays with his hands, no doubt thinking about the feeling of the volleyball in his palm, the best feeling in the world. Hinata and him share the same mind. This confirms it. Bokuto sighs in contentment, knowing that his decision had been the right one all along. 

“Then make it onto the team.” 

Hinata, shaken out of his daze, uncomprehendingly jolts his head at the command. 

“What!? I—I don’t understand.” 

“The team’s in a bit of a pinch right now. You see, their starting setter is in the hospital right now— _long story there_ , and they’ve brought in a bunch of new recruits this year, so everyone’s still getting used to each other… Not to mention that it’s pretty much the middle of the season…” 

The Sharks were talented, and had been getting along well enough this season, but any small tip in the balance for a team—no matter how strong—can be enough to send them spiraling out of control. These makings would cause any experienced volleyball player or supporter to feel queasy and apprehensive for the coming tournaments. 

Hinata buries his chin in his hand, deep in thought as he imagines the situation, “That sounds like quite a tough spot.” 

Bokuto continues, “The coach is looking for an ace because their current one is retiring next year, so he needs a new one to train… _now_.” 

Given the player’s sudden announcement of retirement—his wife was about to give birth to their first child—and the coach’s desperation, these circumstances would have had Bokuto ecstatic and beyond confident to snatch the title of ace. Whispered hushes had kept the coach’s panic under wraps, because if this got out, the Sharks would lose any mental upper hand over their upcoming opponents. This is an unquestionable gold mine of opportunity for any rising volleyball player. Having a ticket straight to the pros is unimaginable in any other situation. 

Hinata is buzzing, “So, did they ask you? That’s awesome, Bokuto! Are you taking me on a tour of your new gym?” He jiggles his leg, waiting for Bokuto to tell him that he’s right. For one with absolute conviction and drive on the court, Hinata is strangely not getting the message here. Bokuto needs to spell it out, so he clears his throat. 

“Right now, I’m bringing _you_ to a private tryout for them to see _you_. They did ask me, but I turned them down. They weren’t too happy about it, but I told them there’s someone else they should take a chance on.” _Someone with a lot of heart and too much to prove._

Bokuto’s proposal had not been a pretty affair, to say the least. At their meeting, Daichi had to do major damage control after Bokuto had respectfully turned down the coach’s offer. Both Daichi and the coach had not expected Bokuto to decline the offer, much less with no hesitation. They had both incredulously asked the reason for rejection. Daichi is definitely next in line to be captain, from the way the coach had trusted Daichi’s recommendation for the new ace—the coach had thrown Daichi incredulous glances left and right, undoubtedly questioning why Daichi had brought Bokuto in if he had not wanted to join the team. 

Swallowing, Bokuto had first explained that he had initially expressed interest, but decided he wanted to pursue his videomaking. He can see more growth in that pursuit, more opportunities to meet more people, and with it, the control over his life and career, one that wouldn’t end just because of the slow deterioration of his body’s peak form—but rather a calling that he can pursue by having a youthful mindset for as long as he wants it. 

The coach had eyed Bokuto warily for what seemed like an eternity. 

After countless expressions of, “Oh, that’s what you do for a living?” or “Interesting, I didn’t know people could make enough money from that,” Bokuto had become accustomed to the tense silences following any description of his job as a fulltime vlogger. There are only a select few who wholeheartedly accept his passion—and the coach had proven himself to be one of the few with a resigned chuckle: “I see. So you know who you are both in and out of the sport. Not everyone does. Good luck to you, and if you ever get the itch to practice with us, give me a call.” 

Hinata can’t wrap his head around Bokuto’s summary of his meeting with the coach, “I—I can’t believe this. Are you really saying you got me a private tryout—you’re giving me an opportunity to live my daydream—you’re—you’re letting me have a chance at your spot?” His face doesn’t wear happiness for himself, but concern and horror for Bokuto, obviously thinking he’s making a mistake. 

“That _is_ what I’m saying. But don’t make me regret it. You’re my one and only student, after all, and so if you mess up, you’re going to make _me_ look bad!” 

Bokuto’s bravado pulls Hinata out of his stupor. Hinata understands that Bokuto means it. 

Hinata yelps, “I—would never!” Hinata gives himself a small slap on the face, to wake himself up. “Oh my gosh, I’ll do my best, I really will—this is the first step to everything I’ve wanted… I really don’t know how to thank you. Thank you thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! This is something I don’t know how to pay back. Bokuto—thank you so much.” 

Hinata’s unbridled excitement pours through the entire car, causing Bokuto to roll down Hinata’s window to cool him down. If anything, Hinata is now more nervous than anything, perhaps at the sudden realization he only gets one shot at this. 

“No problem. They’ll believe in you when they see your jump and spike. They have to take you.” 

Bokuto knows it will be alright if Hinata shows them even an ounce of what he has seen when he practices alone with Hinata. One step at a time. Bokuto stops the car, having arrived at their destination. 

Bokuto gives a friendy salute to Daichi, who he can see standing in front of the door to the nearest building. Daichi waves back. 

“Do you see that man over there? That’s Sawamura Daichi, he’s a team veteran—” 

“I know who he is! Number 6! I’ve watched all their games—this doesn’t feel real.”

Hinata’s eyes are drinking in the sight of Daichi, someone he has undoubtedly only seen on flatscreen TVs, uniformed Daichi, who stands under the bright lights of the court. The real life Daichi is no less impressive, though he does appear more like a regular human being rather than the solid, unshakable receiver on television. Daichi starts to jog over to the car to greet Hinata and Bokuto. 

“It is real though. It’ll be normal for you one day. Go with him. Now make it happen.” 

Bokuto gives Hinata the final nudge to start the new chapter of his life, by giving him a slap on the back. Hinata perks up, smiles, and opens the door to step out of the car. The way Hinata breaths is no longer nervously, but with a relish for the new oxygen he takes in. He shakes his hand with Daichi, who tells him to head inside and grab a volleyball before they start. Hinata nods enthusiastically, no doubt ready for this. Before he runs to follow Daichi’s directions, he dangerously veers around to face Bokuto and bows deeply. All Bokuto can see is orange. 

“I’LL MAKE YOU PROUD, BOKUTO!” 

His eyes are closed, to stop the tears that will undoubtedly come if he stares directly at Bokuto. Hinata quickly turns back around and sprints to the door. Bokuto is thankful, because he’s not sure that he could have held his own composure and kept in his own tears of happiness for Hinata. Daichi is amused at the spectacle. 

“That kid is never going to shut up about you, huh.”

Bokuto hadn’t really heard Daichi, “Hm?” 

Bokuto watches the small of Hinata’s back disappear into the door. He can’t wait for the email update that Hinata will undoubtedly send him, regardless of the final result. He knows Hinata will tell him all about it, exclamation points, _bwah_ s, the whole nine yards. That’s who Hinata is. 

“Think about it: he meets his YouTube role model, who happens to strike up a conversation with him about volleyball. Said role model thinks that his spike has a lot of potential, takes him under his wing, shows him the ropes. And then, gets him a once-in-a-lifetime tryout for his biggest dream. He’s not going to ever forget this.”

“Neither will I.” 

Hinata had never gotten a chance. Who was Bokuto to not give him one? 

Bokuto had an illustrious high school and college volleyball stint that he would forever cherish. There is nothing more he could have asked for from his teams, nothing more he could have asked from himself as a player. Aside from that, he also had his video channel, his friends, Scout, and now Akaashi. There was a lot more for Bokuto to do in life, whether it is in volleyball or not. 

“Be good to him, alright? Make sure Oikawa doesn’t give him a rough time when he’s back.”

Daichi clicks his tongue, “I can’t promise anything on behalf of Mr. Kiss-Concussion.” 

Then, he turns to the door, no doubt considering Hinata. “I’m looking forward to seeing him play.”

Bokuto knowingly grins as he turns the ignition. Daichi will not be disappointed.

✧ ✧ ✧

Kenma absentmindedly fiddles with a mobile game he has had on his phone for quite a while. It’s not one he plays a lot, but one he saves for when he needs a game with little to no effort. As he unconsciously restocks his farmer avatar’s crops and trades hay for cattle in the game, he wonders how much longer Kuroo is going to take to be trying on his clothes.

He stares at the cloth curtain, drawn before him as he sits a cushioned chair outside. They’re at the mall together in the closest city, since there are no major outlets in Shimoda. Kuroo had needed new clothes, which was a fact even Kenma did not deny—his sun-faded shirts begged to be replaced. Kenma gives into his antsy boredom. 

He stands up and calls to the curtain, “I’m going to go to the game shop. Be back soon.” 

“Oh—you want me to come with?” Kuroo, in the middle of an outfit change, pauses and the rustle of clothes halts. 

“No, it won’t be long.” The game shop is just around the corner from this store they’re in. 

The store clerk eyes Kenma as he leaves the store, which Kenma does his best to ignore her gaze. 

It’s been a while since Kenma has gone to a videogame store, especially since there’s really no need to go because his sponsors keep him well-stocked and game-companies practically have to plead him to play their games. Hands in his pockets, Kenma’s eyes face down to the ground, watching where he places his steps on the patterned carpet. 

_When was the last time I waited for a release? The last time I asked my mom for money to buy a game?_

Inside the game store, glistening cases of plastic boast covers with badass playable characters and plastic figurines stand frozen in battle cry in glass cases, on full display for the wealthier—or less inhibited—enthusiasts that show support beyond just playing the games. Excited middle schoolers huddle in the corner of the store, bombarding an overworked store clerk with a barrage of questions about the latest release for an adventure game. The clerk smiles brightly and answers every question with animated expertise. 

Kenma smiles knowingly as he thumbs the plastic cases closest to him, staring at titles—some that he knows, some that he doesn’t—there are somehow still so many games he hasn’t gotten to try yet, and there will always be another game that he will decide to play the next day, before succumbing to his dry, blue-light badgered eyes and going to sleep. Since moving out of his mother’s house, Kenma had stayed up as late as he needed to play his games, but he had to admit that waking up early to play games in the forbidden hours of the morning had always given him an extra shot of an adrenaline. 

“Excuse me—” 

The exasperated clerk from earlier had managed to field the middle schoolers, and now stood instead of Kenma. 

He wears the shop shirt, two sizes too big for him and scruffy cargo shirts. He’s strangely very tall, towering over Kenma the same way Kuroo does. He’s bigger and wider than Kuroo and looks a bit clumsy. Though this is real life, the clerk would stand out less if he were in a videogame, sporting silver hair and piercing emerald irises that can only be described as cat-like. Kenma peers up at him, attention torn away from the game case in his hands that he had taken off the shelf to read the back cover. 

“Yes?” 

“Did you need any help?” _Oh right, he works here. That’s a normal thing to ask._

Kenma waves his hand as dismissal, wanting to give the clerk a rest, “Oh no, thank you, though.” 

“’S alright.” 

The tall clerk stands in front of Kenma, not making any indication to leave, bouncing on his heels. It looks more like the clerk _did_ want to be bothered, like he needs something to do or else he won’t feel like he’s gotten his job done. There’s anticipation hanging in the space between them. 

And then the large man-boy opens his mouth: 

“I—I just wanted to say I watch your livestream every week.” 

Kenma is taken aback, though it would have been very obvious that this was going to turn into one of those scenarios where he is recognized as **kodzuken**. 

Kenma only hates meeting his fans because he feels that he disappoints them—he is always smaller than expected, quieter than their preconceived notions, and most of all, less of a personality than he is on camera. It’s easy to let loose and show all of his emotions when he’s playing a game, but when he’s just existing—as he is most of the time, he doesn’t harbor the same range of feelings. Ditching the fake-smiles from the very beginning, Kenma had decided to be civil and polite when he could, because that’s the best he can do. He hates disappointing people, but he hates being fake even more. This was the most ill-suited part of his work for his personality. 

“Oh my—I’m so stupid—you’re probably very uncomfortable right now, I’ll leave you alone.” 

Kenma steels himself, because the store clerk hadn’t done anything wrong. It was definitely his own fault for showing up a place most likely to harbor any of his viewers. A small laugh leaves Kenma’s chest, one that laughs at himself and his own lack of foresight. This wasn’t all that bad though. The taller man was strangely nonthreatening, in spite of his striking appearance. 

“It’s okay, I don’t really know why I forgot that it could be possible that people recognize me here. What’s your name? It feels weird that you know me… but I don’t know you.” 

“My name is Lev!” Lev’s green eyes soften, dilating instead now that he knows he hasn’t bothered Kenma, “…Did you want to know more about that game?”

Lev nods at the game in Kenma’s hand, which Kenma had forgotten about until now. Bursting with the need to tell Kenma about the game, Kenma sees no other option but to assent. It would be helpful to have another player’s synopsis rather than an advertised summary that he could find online. 

“Yes.”

And the dam wall breaks forth: “I think it’s _awesome_ , there’s a solid storyline—I don’t want to spoil anything, but I actually CRIED—and the graphics are better than I can see in real life!” Lev’s gesturing wildly, wrapped up in emotions in his reverie, recalling the crystal-clear graphics of the fantasy world he undoubtedly loved. 

Lev’s crazed eyes then search the very same shelf Kenma had taken the game from and takes a case out—no doubt having memorized the entire layout of the store to so games are at the mercy of his fingertips, “The same studio did this one, too.” It’s a renowned game, one that Kenma instantly recognizes as a Hall-of-Gamer game. This is a thorough assessment. 

“I played through it all in a few days, but I took a lot of breaks because I get distracted easily— _you_ could probably finish it in five hours if you wanted to—” Lev stops himself midsentence, realizing that he sounds like enough of a fan to be able to estimate the duration Kenma’s playthrough of this game. Kenma smirks, absentmindedly telling himself that he will time his own playthrough, just to see if Lev is as much of a fan as he appears to be. 

Now out of breath, Lev’s chest heaves as he wraps up his mini-review, “There’s a sequel coming out in a few months and I think I’ll play it when it comes out. It’s a game that makes me want to play more games.” The look of awe in his eye, the silent wonder of post-game-completion-depression, is one Kenma knows all too well. 

“Those are the greatest.” Kenma smiles a tiny smile at him. 

“Oh—” 

“Do you want to exchange numbers? I’d appreciate game recommendations once in a while.” 

Kenma holds his phone out, and Lev gingerly takes it in his own hands, comically large when compared to Kenma’s tiny red phone. 

“Oh—of course! Are you sure that’s okay?”

Kenma deadpans, “Well if my number gets out, I’ll know it was you. Then I have my people deal with you.”

Lev deflates, already handing the phone back to Kenma, “Oh…”

“I’m just kidding, you know.” Kenma holds out his phone again, insisting. 

Lev brightens up again, and punches in his number, “Got it!” 

A hand comes from behind Kenma to rest on his shoulder, “Kenma, it’s not nice to threaten people. And unwise if they’re much larger than you.” 

He doesn’t even need to turn to know who it is. Lev looks up, having just finished entering his contact information. The spiky shadow cast on the floor only reaffirms what Kenma already knew. 

“Ugh. This is Kuroo. Ignore him for now.” 

Kuroo is chuckling, obviously proud of himself. His undeniable knack for showing up in the most inconvenient moments is just another thing Kenma has gotten used to from him. Lev looks between the two at an alarming rate, eyebrows furrowed while he tries to figure something out. 

He scratches his head, “…Kuroo? Why does that name sound familiar?” 

Kenma needs a distraction, _now_. For some reason he doesn’t feel like revealing _yes, this my boyfriend, **kur0o_1** —yes, the very one who asked me out over livestream, which you probably watched._ Thankfully, he has a very convenient one right in his own hand, one that serves him very well. _Special attack._

“Can I buy this game?” 

Lev brightens up at the question, forgetting that he had just been racking his brain to resolve the missing memory. 

The three head over to the counter, Lev pressing register buttons to sell a game to his favorite gamer. Kenma pats his pockets, in search of a wallet—and he doesn’t feel the expected bump. He sighs, remembering that he had walked out of the house with only his keys, because this was something Kuroo had brought him along to, he had only come to give Kuroo company… 

Kenma is about to regretfully tell Lev that he can’t pay for the game when Kuroo wordlessly takes out his own wallet and places a credit card on the counter. Kuroo is relaxed as ever, as though it is his own game. Lev is obviously puzzled by this series of events, but continues ringing up Kuroo for the game, not wanting to question a customer. He gives an energetic wave as Kuroo and Kenma wave their own on their way out, reminding Kenma to text him when he gets the chance. 

Kenma can’t meet Kuroo’s eyes. 

That had been embarrassing, to say the least: “You didn’t have to… I can pay you back.” 

“Think of it as a thank you for coming with me today.” 

Kuroo waves his hand, simultaneously warding Kenma’s embarrassment away, meaning it as he smiles down as Kenma. Instantly, Kenma feels better and he’s startled at how fast the relief comes. Kuroo is still overly polite for someone who shamelessly comes over to their house every day after work to lounge on Kenma’s couch as he makes dinner for himself and Akaashi—so much so that Akaashi barely blinks when he sees Kuroo in the living room nowadays. Kuroo is still extremely cautious for someone who gives Kenma shoulder massages after his long livestreams, which are devilishly addictive, which give Kenma more reason to look forward to his streaming days. 

Not liking this politeness, Kenma chides, “You don’t have to thank me, I’m your—” 

Kuroo keeps the excitement out of his voice, “I’m your?” But his face wears the truth. 

Kenma still can’t really say it aloud. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to, since everything with Kuroo had felt so normal, as though Kuroo had always been there. Kenma is making _himself_ uncomfortable, and he hates that maybe—just maybe—he is the same as Kuroo: staying on the cautious side. Unlike Kuroo, who does this as per Kenma’s request to take things slow, Kenma does this because… because having to name relationships feels unnecessary. 

When it’s right, when the pieces fit together, when he feels at home with Kuroo—isn’t that the only part that matters? 

“You know what I mean.” _Do I even know what I mean?_

Kuroo decides not to push further, having already pushed a little bit. He’s always like this, testing Kenma each time, feeling the boundaries, but never breaking them unless Kenma wants to. 

So instead, he comments on something more casual, “Lev. Interesting name. New friend?” 

“I guess so.” Kenma wonders if he will ever see Lev in person again. He’ll make sure to text him when he gets home. 

A rare compliment from Kenma: “He gives good videogame reviews.” 

“Oh? Peas in a pod.” Kuroo smiles, and it’s a tiny bit annoying how proud of Kenma he seems to be for making a new friend. Kenma could make all the friends he wanted to! He just normally didn’t… didn’t feel like it. He doesn’t need to be reminded by Kuroo that it is rare for him to make friends, much less be the one to initiate it. 

The swish of Kuroo’s shopping bag reminds Kenma that they’re still at the mall for Kuroo, not for Kenma to make friends. 

“Are you done for the day?”

Kuroo points to a store across the way, “There’s one more store I saw on the way here. Last one, I promise. Is that alright?”

“Yeah.” 

The two head in and begin shopping, Kenma nodding or shaking his head to Kuroo’s choices off the rack. No explanation given, Kuroo trusts Kenma’s opinion. Helping Kuroo choose clothes is entertaining in its own way, because Kuroo definitely does not adventure out with his tastes, only wearing black most of the time, which doesn’t serve him well given his job in the constant, unrelenting sunshine—though black is definitely his color. Kenma nods to more whites and colors for him to brighten his closet, liking the rather simple cuts and fits of the shirts Kuroo selects. 

Kuroo grabs a hoodie off one rack, holding it up for Kenma to see. Kenma nods, imperceptibly more enthusiastically. 

“This isn’t for you, ya know. Maybe one I can keep.” 

Kuroo pokes Kenma’s shoulder, cushioned by the hoodie Kenma’s currently wearing. One of Kuroo’s hoodies. Conveniently forgotten about until this very moment. 

It’s a low blow, so Kenma instead shakes his head to newly deny the new prospective hoodie. It’s not his fault that Kuroo’s hoodies are more cozy, perfect for burrowing into when Akaashi sets the thermostat too low for Kenma’s liking—which is all the time. And it’s definitely Kuroo’s fault for leaving his hoodie one day at their house, and he had it coming for leaving it in Kenma’s room—definitely _not_ Kenma’s fault for putting it on—just to try it on and see how it fit. Needless to say, Kenma doesn’t wear his own hoodies anymore. 

Striding off to the changing room before Kenma can protest, Kuroo ignores Kenma’s pout. 

Kenma stands outside the changing room while Kuroo tries the narrowed-down selections. Occasionally, his head will peek out from behind the curtain to look for Kenma and he’ll model the tentative outfit. Kuroo always makes the most menial of tasks seem like important milestones, especially when it comes to Kenma. 

Kuroo’s head pokes out one last time, this time his eyes smiling when they fall on Kenma. _Does he always look at me like that?_ He’s wearing the hoodie. The hoodie is soft and fits him perfectly. Kenma nods in approval, already claiming it as his own in his head. 

Jokingly, Kuroo laments, “Unfair. I can’t steal any clothes from you.” 

He’s correctly sensed that Kenma, the hoodie thief, will triumphantly be successful in his next conquest. Not that Kuroo would put up a huge struggle. _Pesky mind-reader._

Kuroo teases, “All of your shirts would be crop-tops on me.” 

For a moment, Kenma seriously considers Kuroo sporting one of his countless sponsor-provided tees, all in size men’s extra-small. If they even got over Kuroo’s head, the hem would fall somewhere above his bellybutton and the sleeves would be way too tight. For all his bravado, Kuroo would definitely pull the hem down to cover himself, revealing his true colors. It’d be hilarious. But Kuroo had the washboard abs for it not to be that embarrassing. 

“It’d look fine. You can take them.” 

Kenma helps gather up Kuroo’s “yes” pile of clothes and starts walking over to the counter, leaving a stuttering Kuroo heating up in his new hoodie. 

“HUH?!” 

Goodness, Bokuto was rubbing off on him. They’re definitely best friends for a reason.

✧ ✧ ✧

Upon leaving the store, Kuroo had recovered, but had not said anything even as the two had loaded everything in the trunk of the car. Kenma had buckled himself in, having placed his new game in his lap, antsy at the prospect of being able to open it and play it at home. Kuroo finally had made a noise, to laugh at Kenma’s incomparable fondness for his games. It had been a pleasant outing for both of them.

As Kuroo drives them home, Kenma thinks about the inevitable end to the ride. Like clockwork, Kuroo always drives to Akaashi and Kenma’s house first, parking his car in their driveway. 

The whole procedure is entirely too much, because Kenma will wait on the porch for Kuroo to back up and go to his house, which is, as everybody knows, just across the street. Kuroo never listens to Kenma, who always tells him that he can just walk across the street to get to his own house. 

Unfailingly, when Kenma opens the door, Akaashi will wryly joke, _make sure Kuroo gets home safely!_ Akaashi is not as funny as he thinks he is. 

Now they’re sitting in Kenma’s driveway, as usual before Kenma is dropped off. It’s the scheduled time for Kenma to tell Kuroo that he should just park in his own driveway and let Kenma walk back to his house like a normal person would. 

However, Kenma impulsively decides differently this time, “You might as well just move in.” 

Without meaning to, it comes out sounding a lot less annoyed and a lot more commanding than he had intended. It’s half a joke, half an unofficial wish that he has been making for quite some time. The house is always quieter after Kuroo leaves to his own house, and usually this would be reason for Kenma to relax—but the quiet is somehow less friendly when Kuroo is away. 

Kuroo is frozen in his seat but comes to his senses and puts the car in park. Silent, unformed words still in his open mouth. 

“I—” 

Kenma continues, “You already basically live over here. You wouldn’t need an excuse to come.” 

He’s not sure if he’s making excuses for himself, because he wants Kuroo to live with him, but is passing it as a solution for Kuroo’s sake. 

Kuroo’s visible eye scrutinize Kenma’s gaze, “Is this a serious thought?”

Kenma responds, “I mean, I’m sure Bokuto would kick you out for Akaashi any day.” 

Kenma can’t stop himself from sarcasm, because he’s afraid he’s made the wrong decision, making the mood lighter to avoid the fact he has made a proposal that can’t really be taken back. 

Kuroo’s offended, but only for a second, “Hey! But—but that’s not a bad… This could work.” 

Kenma’s tensed-up shoulders finally unwind, Kuroo not alarmed anymore, but instead pensive. This causes Kenma to return to reality as well, and his eyes catch the dark outline of Akaashi’s little free library in the yard. 

“Well, Akaashi likes his garden too much. Maybe I can switch with Bokuto, then.” 

It’s scarily starting to sound like a plan. He’s startled by the way he immediately guesses how long it would take to set up his streaming equipment and PC in a new house. Kuroo’s eyeing him, excited as well, but there’s a slight hesitation. His silence makes Kenma uneasy. _Did I go too far? He… doesn’t want this, does he…_

Kuroo reaches his hand out and puts it on Kenma’s arm, stroking it and reaching his hand. 

There’s an unwavering clarity in Kuroo’s voice when he speaks: “We seem to be making decisions for people who aren’t even here. I’m—I _definitely_ want to do this. But we both have to ask, okay?” 

Kenma hadn’t been doing that on purpose—he simply gets the feeling this arrangement would be accepted by both parties, since Bokuto had practically been over every day to talk to Akaashi in the dead of night. Kenma was a light sleeper, and always had heard the front door open, despite the tip-toes Akaashi troubles himself with. 

Leaning back into the car chair, Kenma agrees, “Fine. Let me ask first, because if you ask Bokuto, Akaashi is going to know right away. He’ll literally be at our house before I can even tell Akaashi.” Akaashi was always the more deliberate between him and Kenma, so he knew that Akaashi would need more time to process than Bokuto, who would undoubtedly jump at the opportunity. 

Kuroo shakes his head in amusement, “How do you know my best friend better than I do?”

“You’re both very predictable sometimes. Not as smooth as you think.” 

The light in the car shuts off automatically with a loud click, since they’ve been sitting in the car for a while. The two don’t even hear it. They’re actually doing this. 

The present moment doesn’t feel real to Kenma, it feels more like an alternate reality where he had tried the riskier option for kicks. Kuroo is equally as shocked, Kenma feeling the ripples in the electric anticipation between them. Like all the times he shares with Kuroo, it isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s something Kenma has never done before. 

Kuroo’s voice is soft, “You know, I thought things were going pretty well, but this is just a thousand times faster than I expected...” as though he is thinking out loud to himself. 

Faster, than Kuroo had expected… _Oh no, he doesn’t want this… I was the one to rush._

Kenma hates the way his voice falters, “Is this… too fast, for you?” 

Out of all possible problems, he would not have presumed Kuroo to be hesitant. The very patience Kenma had requested, he had not given back to Kuroo. Kenma shrinks in his seat, wanting to disappear into Kuroo’s hoodie. 

“No—no.” Kuroo’s hand shakes Kenma’s own in encouragement. 

Kuroo’s voice grows louder, “I can’t wait. It couldn’t be faster—I want to live with my boyfriend _now_ , is that okay?” 

The question refers to the title of boyfriend, which Kuroo has just called Kenma for the first time. Kenma’s glad he can only see one of Kuroo’s eyes right now, because the combined fierceness of both of them would have seared him with one glance. His bedhead bangs are handy once in a while. Kenma draws a sharp intake of breath, his gulp of air reduced in appearance due to the bagginess of Kuroo’s hoodie that he wears. 

Only able to nod, Kenma gives him a cautious smile and stops shrinking into the chair. Knowing that speaking right now would undoubtedly lead to his voice cracking, Kenma vows to say it back when his own words can be just as strong as Kuroo’s. Kuroo deserves that. 

Boyfriend, hoodie-provider, his particular person— _whatever_ he is going to call Kuroo, he’ll want to shout it, say something loudly for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Second-to-last chapter! I can't believe it!!! 
> 
> We'll be back for a wrap-up with our entire lovely cast :-) 
> 
> I am a firm believer that the best conversations happen in parked cars. You be the judge of that yourself. I'm unashamed of the amount of fluffiness I've written--but it really struck me when I saw that my Word doc for this fic has just passed 100 pages. 
> 
> (If you saw the update early and saw all the formatting errors--no you didn't! Sorry about that haha.)


	11. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, read on to finally learn what "The Boyfriend Challenge" refers to.

"One, two, three... "

Bokuto presses the top button of the video camera fastened to a sturdy gunmetal tripod. He flashes a thumbs-up to everyone, those seated not even paying attention—except for Akaashi. Akaashi’s always paying attention.

As he peeps through the viewfinder to make any final frame adjustments, Bokuto gets a final glimpse of how it looks: Akaashi sits nervously on the sofa, hands folded in his lap as he waits for Bokuto to come sit down next to him in the empty space. Kuroo, on the other side of the couch, sits with his arms crossed, lazily staring at Kenma, who sits on the fuzzy blue rug next to Scout. Scout’s asleep, paws twitching as he dreams. Next to Kenma, Sugawara sits with his legs straight out, poking Oikawa and pointing at the camera to tell him to pay attention. With one hand, Oikawa makes his trademark peace sign, the other wrapped around Sugawara’s shoulders. The two are wearing matching Christmas sweaters, which is utterly disgusting to everyone else but Bokuto. Bokuto appreciates the spirit.

All systems are a go. Bokuto cautiously tip toes around the tripod, and sits down next to Akaashi on the couch, taking in a breath to begin the introduction for one of the most exciting videos to date:

“HEY EVERYONE!”

“…Welcome back to Ballin’ with Bokuto—but it’s not just me as you can see! We have everybody here for a fun holiday special. This will be a collaboration between me and Ken—oh sorry— **kodzuken**! I’ll be playing a volleyball simulator next week against him on his channel, so check that out when you can!”

Bokuto spreads his arms out in Kenma’s direction, waving jazz hands to spotlight his fellow internet star. Kenma shyly waves, out of his element when the camera is not his own. There should be enough space on screen to put a pop-up to Kenma’s streams when Bokuto is editing in post-production.

“What we’re really here for today is a competition—that’s right! I don’t usually post personal content on here, but it feels strange to not mention it at all.”

One last time, Bokuto shifts his glance to Akaashi, to ask approval; they had been over this before, but Bokuto wanted to make sure that Akaashi was ready for the entire internet—well, okay, maybe just his subscribers—to know about their relationship. The encouraging, warm, and reliable eye-smile Akaashi gifts him lets him know that he’s truly comfortable with it. Behind Akaashi, Kuroo gives a knowing wink to Bokuto. Everything would be alright. 

“Kuroo and I have been in Shimoda for about a year now, and so much in our lives has changed since then. We aren’t actually housemates anymore, because Akaashi and I are dating… and—uh, so is everybody here. Akaashi is a big part of my life now and so this video is going to be about relationships. Today, we’re doing The Boyfriend Challenge: the true test of who is the best couple.”

Continuing, Bokuto begins to explain the procedure: “Each one of us here is very competitive—”

“I’m sorry— _what_!?”

There’s a resounding confusion from Kuroo, Kenma, Sugawara, and Oikawa. Though Sugawara had been the one to interrupt, all of them wildly glance at each other to confirm that they are hearing Bokuto correctly.

Oikawa groans, “Really, Bokuto? You told us we were going to a Christmas couples’ bake-off! Where are my promised gingerbread cookies?” Oikawa is festively dressed, which does not match his sour expression. Definitely naughty-list material. However, his anger is not unwarranted though, that had been the _original_ plan. Before Bokuto had come up with a better one… 

“That’s because I wanted you to come,” he explains. Groans all around are heard. _Note to self: never joke about cookies._ That had been a bad move. “You all are so simple-minded. Don’t worry—this’ll be fun! It’s a competition.” He’d have to edit this out later. His friends would thank him. They’re party-poopers.

With a worried look, Akaashi frowns, “Bokuto-san, they seem upset.” Kuroo and Kenma shoot Akaashi suspicious glances.

“Akaashi, you knew about this?”

Fiddling with his shirt hem, Akaashi recounts, “Well, he had a big poster planning this all out in our study—”

“’Kaashi! They don’t need to know that. What they do need to know is that there’s a prize! And punishments!”

Suddenly, there’s a change in mood. _Finally_. There is still a chance for the video to be good.

“What’s the prize?” _Shoot,_ he hadn’t thought that far. He had only planned the penalties. Always improvising, it’s Bokuto’s motto that even the best-laid plans go to waste. This is a convenient one he likes to remember when he had never had a plan in the first place. 

“Um, there _will_ be a prize. I promise! But I do have punishments.”

Kenma raises his left eyebrow, as if to say: _That makes me want to play even less_. He knows how it looks—

Saving grace Sugawara rescues him, “C’mon guys, it sounds like a good time to me, Bokuto. Explain the rules.”

Back to being himself, Bokuto turns around to pull out the supplies he’s hidden behind the couch. He pulls out a paper bag that contains a cardboard spinner which he repurposed from an old board game, mini dry-erase boards, markers, three Santa hats, and three reindeer headbands.

“Thanks, Suga, I knew I could count on you!” Bokuto begins to distribute supplies as he explains, first chucking Santa hats at Kenma and Oikawa, saving one for himself. Oikawa is caught off guard, and the hat lands square on his face as Sugawara laughs. He pouts, putting the hat on, hiding his pride and joy—his hair. 

“Okay—so, Kenma and I, since we’re the hosts, will keep score and read out questions to each couple about each other. Both boyfriends must write their answer separately and show the audience.” He hands Sugawara a reindeer headband, which jingles because of its small bells as Sugawara places it on his head. Bokuto tosses one to Kuroo, and the ears are barely visible above his spiky hair, but at least the antlers are visible. Then, he places the final one on Akaashi, who looks absolutely adorable in it—Bokuto may or may not have bought these with him in mind….

Telling himself not to get too distracted, Bokuto picks back up where he left off, “If the couple answers correctly together, they get a point—but if they don’t, they have to do a punishment. All punishments last until the end of the game, at least physically. Mentally, they will maybe last forever.”

Kenma passes out the whiteboards and markers to each of them. Kuroo begins to doodle stick-figures on his own.

With a flourish, Bokuto assumes full form of game-show host, placing the Santa hat on his head and giving his co-host, Kenma, the spinner wheel. “OKAY, Kenma, spin the wheel!” Kenma flicks it, with about ten percent of the enthusiasm Bokuto would have hoped for. Nonetheless, the plastic spoke does the job and whirs silently, eventually landing on the piece of the circle labelled “S + O”.

Oikawa hums, “Wow, you really went all out for this,” who watches Bokuto pull out a set of paper cards from his pocket. 

Kenma ventures, “Sugawara and Oikawa?” He’s referencing the spot the spinner has landed on. Bokuto nods, he is correct. Standing up to clear his throat and ask the first question of The Boyfriend Challenge, Bokuto reminds himself that Oikawa is wearing the Santa hat and Sugawara is the reindeer, which are placeholders for “Boyfriend A” and “Boyfriend B”’s written in his question cue cards. As he prepares to ask the question, Oikawa and Sugawara bicker: 

“I refuse to answer anything that will put me in a bad light.”

“Don't worry Tooru, I’ll do that for you!”

Hearing more than enough, Bokuto reads the question from the card, “What is Sugawara’s favorite thing about Oikawa?” Realizing it’s a bit broad, he stipulates, “ _Physical_ thing!”

Sugawara shakes his head, “I—OKAY, I DON’T WANT TO PLAY ANYMORE.”

Akaashi silently shakes in laughter, so as not to incite Sugawara’s anger. For grown adults, Sugawara and Oikawa are often surprisingly stubborn. The games have only just begun.

Previously unbothered, Oikawa is now invested: “This is a hard question, there’s a lot to choose from.” 

Sighing in resignation, Sugawara picks up his whiteboard. “Fine. For the imaginary prize. At the loss of my dignity.”

Bokuto feigns a countdown, holding his ten fingers and slowly putting a finger down one by one, which causes Sugawara and Oikawa to uncap their markers and scribble down answers. Sugawara is red in the face, Oikawa leering at him, because he’s already won, either way.

“Okay: show your answers!”

Kuroo cranes his neck from his place on the couch, and Akaashi leans forward too.

Sugawara’s reads: _His annoying, fluffy hair._

In Oikawa’s loopy handwriting: _Definitely my hair._

Cackling, Oikawa whips off his Santa hat, flipping his formerly restrained hair in triumph, “Oh my god, so you do love me, Suga!”

Sugawara places his finger on Oikawa’s mouth, “Not another word.” Oikawa silently celebrates, pumping his fist, and nuzzling Sugawara with his bouncy mane. Sugawara gives in, halfheartedly swatting at him, grinning all the while.

“One point for Suga and Oikawa!”

Kenma spins the wheel, which lands on “K+K”, “Okay—Kenma and Kuroo—you next.” Bokuto throws the previous question card over his shoulder, which Akaashi catches for him before it falls to the carpet. Good call, Scout would definitely have eaten it later on.

Pausing to fill in the placeholder, Bokuto reads, “What’s something… Kuroo is unexpectedly good at?” Kenma shifts in his seat on the rug, mental filing cabinet being searched through at this very moment.

Kuroo huffs, “I don’t even know the answer to this…”

Some squeaks from the markers fill the air, Bokuto teeters on the edge of the couch, because he’s not really sure what he would have answered for Kuroo, either. Kuroo is a pretty consistent person. There aren’t really any surprises with him—

Kenma flips his board over first: _Massages._

Sighing, Kuroo admits defeat: _Origami_.

Kenma’s normally narrow eyes widen, “I didn’t know that…” Apparently, no one else did either.

All eyes on him, Kuroo scratches the back of his head nervously, “I’m kinda joking? But it was all I did instead of paying attention in class.”

“Let’s not forget that they have to do a punishment,” Oikawa reminds them, triggering Bokuto to fish for yet another thing behind the couch. Smiling when he feels it, he brings out a large sweater. It’s not just any sweater: though it has two arms, it has two neck holes as well. Bokuto hands it to Kuroo, as he’s a little afraid of the glare Kenma is giving him right now. 

Kenma growls, “ _That’s going to make me sweat_.”

Intentionally ignoring Kenma, Kuroo sidles up close to him and starts putting the sweater over the two of them. After a bit of blind poking around, Kuroo’s head pops out, and he uses his free arm to help Kenma through. Needless to say, Kenma looks like he is ready to kill a man, while Kuroo couldn’t be happier with the situation. In a show of passive-aggressive struggle, Kenma flicks the spinner with the only hand he can.

“Akaashi, Bokuto, your turn,” Kuroo reports, reading the spinner’s landing, since Kenma is still too bothered to do so.

Bokuto reads, “Hm… How do I know when ‘Kaashi is mad at me?” This is a hard question, especially because Akaashi is hard to anger. Usually, Bokuto profusely apologizes whenever he even thinks the other could remotely be upset. Akaashi is also patient beyond belief, which helps—unfortunately, not in this situation.

Bokuto thinks a little harder, scratching his head with a marker, then remembers the very first time he had seen Akaashi distressed—the Scout-Plant Incident. He bites off the cap of the marker, intense concentration in his eyes as he writes down his answer: _When his eyebrows do the thing._ Scout would have answered the same, now knowing Akaashi’s expressions after Bokuto and him had moved into the house across the street.

Tilting away the board from Akaashi’s view so he can’t see, Akaashi’s eyebrows do the exact thing.

He tuts, “Bokuto-san, I wouldn’t cheat,” all the while, eyebrows knitted in slight offense. He pens down his own answer, then looks at Bokuto. They show their boards to the camera, and Sugawara bursts out in laughter.

“I know _exactly_ what Bokuto is talking about!” 

Akaashi puts his hand on Bokuto’s board to see what he wrote, and his eyebrows do the thing _again_. Maybe anger is a stretch, but they do knit together whenever Akaashi is bothered and unable to hide his concern.

“Bokuto-san, that’s not what I wrote,” and turns his board to reveal the most innocent, Akaashi-like answer that he could have ever imagined: _I can’t remember ever being angry at him._

Oikawa rolls his eyes, “That just means you guys are still in your honeymoon phase.”

Ignoring Oikawa, he brings his boyfriend in for a bear hug, “’KAAAASHIIIIII! I love you so much. I’ve never been mad at you either. I’m sorry I made fun of your eyebrows, I love them, it’s cute I promise!” He lets go, realizing that Akaashi cannot always breathe with he gets carried away with his hugs. Flustered, Akaashi adjusts his eyeglasses and settles down.

“Oh right. Our punishment.”

Bokuto gulps, because he has to play fair. He knows what the second punishment is, but it’s his least favorite. He pulls out their jar of mustard and two small glasses…

“Oh, so that’s where those went.” 

“Bottoms up!”

Crossing their arms and tipping their heads back, Akaashi and Bokuto both down a shotglass each of mustard, Kuroo filming the whole thing on his phone, because he knows Bokuto hates mustard. _Why would anyone have normal mustard when honey mustard exists?_ It’s impossible to stop the gags, so he pinches his nose as he swallows. That helps—only a bit. He eyes the water bottle next to Kenma, relief just a few steps away, if Kenma would only hand it to him, but Kenma merely sits there, _Sorry, my hands are full_ , he seems to shrug. It’s payback for the sweater.

On the other hand, Akaashi is done with his glass, licking his upper lip to get rid of the mustard-stache.

Kenma says, “That was hardly a punishment for Akaashi.”

Bokuto’s exasperated, panting out the lingering taste of the condiment, “BUT WHAT ABOUT ME!?” He had suffered enough punishment on behalf of his boyfriend. Kenma flicks the spinner again.

“It’s our turn.”

Bokuto clears his throat, “When did Kuroo fall for Kenma?” From now on, the questions would be a bit more invasive, rather than funny.

“This should be good,” Sugawara winks and then pets Scout, who has now awoken, greeting all of them with sleepy licks. 

Kuroo struggles to write his answer down, because he’s right-handed, and his left is the only one that can pop out of their shared sweater. Short, choppy strokes on the board must denote a terse answer. Balancing the whiteboard on his leg, Kenma writes down an answer as well. This one seems to be an easier question than their last one.

Kenma’s first: _When he first saw me._

Kuroo’s messy script: _Open door._

“What does that even mean?”

“W-when you opened the door for the first time. So—yeah, the first time I saw you.”

There is silence, because they’re both right, but this is obviously the first time Kuroo has admitted this out loud. Akaashi grasps the sleeve of Bokuto’s shirt, to hold him back from teasing, which he inevitably would have to do later. If he’s not imagining things, Bokuto thinks he sees a flush on Kenma’s cheeks, not from the heat of the punishment sweater. Sugawara hops over, smothering the sweatered couple with ear tugs and cheek pulls, _“Our sneaky little Kenma, charming the socks off everyone…”_

“Sugawara, I’m only one year younger than you.”

Kuroo comes back down to earth, “Wait, how did you know it was the first time we met?” He definitely had expected a second punishment for the both of them this time around. Kenma smirks at the memory.

“You couldn’t form a coherent sentence for five minutes after I opened the door to our house. Bokuto took over and talked about his cookies since you weren’t speaking.”

“That’s right! I remember that!”

This has been a trap, at least for Kuroo, “Bokuto, that would be something you should forget…” He puts his head in his single hand. Bokuto grins at him, revenge for Kuroo acting cool about his crush on Kenma when he had been smitten since the very first second. 

To make him feel better, Kenma consoles, “At least we got the point.”

“True, go us.” He holds up his hand, requesting a high five from Kenma, which Kenma begrudgingly slaps with a grunt. They’re a big Christmas monster, clapping. After that, Kenma spins the spinner, again—it lands on Sugawara and Oikawa’s pie slice.

The next cue card reads: “Where was your first kiss?”

Sugawara’s face turns white. For reasons that are unclear, he steals a nervous look at Akaashi, as though he is guilty.

He raises his hand, “Can I plead the fifth?”

“What’s wrong, it was pretty memorable,” then Oikawa sees Sugawara avoiding Akaashi’s gaze and falters, “Oh, I see.”

At the workout session a week after Oikawa had been released from the hospital, he had tagged along with Daichi, Bokuto, and Kuroo for something to do. Since Oikawa had not been cleared for strenuous weight training yet, he was only there for company. Kuroo, Daichi, and him had thanked him by pestering him with a thousand questions about Sugawara, all fielded with indignant “ _I’m not telling you”’s_ eventually subsiding to admissions—the funniest of which was to find out that Oikawa had still wanted to kiss Sugawara after he been ungraciously elbowed by him. Realizing that Sugawara was too prideful to admit to Akaashi that his first kiss with Oikawa had been at the front of the place of their shared work, Bokuto understands and begins to prematurely flip over the cue card to read the punishment.

Oikawa steps up to save his boyfriend, “We’ll take the punishment, please and thank you.”

“Yep. I’m with him on this one.” Rare agreement from these two.

“I mean,” Bokuto adds, “They’re technically willing to accept the punishment.” It’s arguably the worst one so far.

Bokuto laughs, “The punishment is right in your hands. You must draw mustaches on each other’s faces.” Oikawa opens his mouth in silent protest, Sugawara already uncapping his marker to draw an unflattering handlebar on his partner. Resigning himself to his self-inflicted punishment, Oikawa twitches as the ticklish marker gives him a set of facial hair. For Sugawara, Oikawa thinks for a second then decides on a frisky goatee, which Sugawara shudders at upon checking his reflection on his phone screen. Oikawa laughs until tears form, snapping a picture on his phone before Sugawara can get one of him.

“Akaashi, Bokuto.” Kenma points to the result of the spinner. Bokuto reads the next card, and immediately knows they’re going to have to do a punishment again:

“What was our first date? Uh… can we have a moment to discuss?” The lines are blurred between their real and fake dates… 

Oikawa, Sugawara, Kenma, and Kuroo altogether raise their voices: “NO!?” _Fair enough_. Rules are rules.

Sugawara pokes fun, “This is the real test of your couple-telepathy.” Unfortunately, he and Akaashi are not usually on the same page. Well—Akaashi is usually on Bokuto’s page, but it always takes a bit of effort for Bokuto to decode Akaashi’s expressions. Sighing, he begins to write. Akaashi pencils down his answer as well—before erasing it and trying again. Finally, they look at each other and raise their boards:

Akaashi: _The aquarium_.

Bokuto: _FIREWORKS!!!_

Well, time for another punishment.

Akaashi smiles, “Bokuto-san, we’re both right, in our own ways.” Bokuto grins back at him. Those were both good answers. A couch throw pillow hits Bokuto on his face.

Kenma had been the one to throw the pillow, “No, they’re _not_ the same!” He seems to be on a mission for vengeance. Bokuto flips the card over to read the punishment: _Act like each other for the rest of the game._

So with that, Akaashi continues the rest of the game sounding like he is yelling, which is very disconcerting to rest of everyone there—but he’s trying his best. Bokuto had given him the cards, so now he is emcee. Bokuto’s Akaashi impersonation involves twiddling his fingers and calling everyone with honorifics and “-san”’s, much to Kuroo’s amusement. For all efforts, Bokuto occasionally slips out of character, lapses to which Kenma will remind him that “Akaashi doesn’t sound like that.”

The rest of the game passes with more antics and more punishments, each getting more ridiculous than the last. The three couples learn more, perhaps too much, about each other: Out of all Disney movies, Bokuto has seen _Finding Nemo_ the most, Oikawa hates spiders—so Sugawara has to go after them, and Kuroo’s most embarrassing nickname for Kenma is something Bokuto might have to edit out to save his friend from being immortalized on the internet as the world’s sappiest boyfriend.

When they’re too tired to do more, Oikawa and Sugawara clean up the aftermath of the dozens of inflicted punishments, Kenma escapes from the itchy sweater—much to Kuroo’s disappointment, and Akaashi clicks through YouTube to put on a fireplace video on their television to make it feel more like Christmas. All the while, Bokuto begins to make his famous cookies—to make up for the gingerbread ones he lied to Oikawa about. The prize will be shared. Tired from the recording, they sit and talk for the rest of the evening, until the beep of the oven alerts Bokuto that the cookies are done baking. Chocolate-covered smiles and glasses of milk will be etched in Bokuto’s memory of his first Christmas in Shimoda.

Later on in the week, Bokuto will edit the video and count up all the points to discover that Sugawara and Oikawa technically won, _Great minds think alike_ , Oikawa would say. The entire video is so entertaining that it practically edits itself, and after he’s done with the captions and background music, he will ask Akaashi for an approval. Possibly the longest episode of Ballin’ with Bokuto to date.

✧ ✧ ✧

“SEMI...”

“SEMI…”

“SEMI!”

In a fog of lavender and white, Semi Eita, illuminated by the spotlight, dressed in full leather and shredded white threads of a shirt, thrusts his hand into the air with a muscled vigor, drawing a fist closed to silence the murmuring crowd. The sea of the crowd undulates in anticipation, holding their breath.

The song begins as Semi’s guitarist rips forth the first chord—an infusion of pure power and jolting electricity. Lightning visual effects strike the backdrop of the stage; the concert is a storm and they’re the raindrops. Semi’s voice is so much better live—this is Tooru’s first concert, first time in a cheering expanse of admirers that isn’t for volleyball. Rock is a rather extreme plunge for a concert virgin, but Sugawara had assured him that rock concerts are the best ones to go to.

The crowd chants are deafening, _thank goodness_ for the ear plugs Sugawara had brought for them.

The thump of the bass rattles Tooru’s chest, who is loving the feeling of _feeling_ the music. The feeling of feeling. To his side, Sugawara Koushi presses up against the metal fence, throwing up a sign of hand-horns to the stage. Semi, delighted at the sight of his lyricist, sticks out a pink tongue in easy acknowledgement. A fangirl nearby mistakes it for herself, and swoons, almost falling on sweaty concertgoers behind her, who dodge at the last second.

Knowing the ghostwriter for a world-famous rock star has its perks.

A rock star in his own right, Sugawara bobs his head on beat, checking on Tooru once in a while with a brazen smile before he turns to face the stage and appreciate the music.

Every second of the concert is in now slow-motion, guitar riffs on half-speed, because all Tooru is focused on is Sugawara. Each muscle of his is completely tranquil, despite the chaotic multitude surrounding them. The strobe lights from the stage bounce off of his silver hair, yet also give it a luminescent glow. He’s enraptured in the music eyes closed, letting it wash over him. The studded jacket he wears is more revealing of his rough-around-the-edges nature than his pretty face is, but that’s fine by Tooru, who loves when others are taken aback by Sugawara’s free spirit. He’s not just a brainy bookkeeper. 

Sugawara leans into Tooru’s side, “Hey, you.” Though they haven’t talked much throughout the concert, it was fine. They’d talk on the way home. Right now, they listen together.

Fired up, Tooru bounces up and down in time with the song, pulling Sugawara to his side to do the same. With a breathless wheeze of a laugh, Sugawara obliges and they jump together, young and healthy and uninhibited. It’s easy to be swept up with the passion of the crowd. He’s thankful for his athletic endurance—because he still finds himself gasping for breath due to the thrill of the atmosphere.

“Alright, alright. Thanks everybody. I might need a break after all that—you guys are so lively that it makes _me_ tired.” The crowd laughs, and there are a few facetious boos to discourage Semi from calling in an early night. It’s not lost on Semi, who wears a steely, serious face when performing, but lets a bold grin out when he converses with the audience. He speaks as though they’re old friends who’ve reunited for the first time in forever.

With a lower, suave undertone, he intimates, “Don’t you worry though, we’ll be here all night.” The hyperactive fangirl near Tooru, now accompanied by more of her kind, wails, holding her hand out to Semi to promise it in marriage, or the like. 

Semi chuckles at the scream, “We’re so glad you are spending your New Year’s Eve with us.” At this, resounding cheers and whoops fill the air. “There are a couple more songs ‘til midnight. Let’s finish strong, shall we?” Turning around, he makes a few incomprehensible hand signals to his band, who nod back and readjust for the new set. There’s a brief pause, so Tooru turns to Sugawara, who is still whooping in response to Semi. 

Sugawara shows his face to Tooru, a carefree glint in his eye, which is something that Tooru knows means that Sugawara is utterly, completely refreshed. When most people might be overwhelmed by the raw noise of a concert, this is how he recharges.

“So, just how many of them have you written?” Tooru tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind Sugawara’s ear so he can see his mole better, giving it a little brush with his index finger.

The heavy-metal fairy gestures up to the stage, “Eh—I could be up there, singing the words too.” Sugawara winks, “Give Semi a run for his money, that poser.” He acts jealous, but Tooru knows that he’s alright with being behind the scenes, a backstage genius—though he has more than enough talent to bask in the limelight. Sugawara Koushi is a mystery, one that he has yet to solve.

Tooru has to strain his voice a little to respond, “I bet.” The music is picking back up.

The new set comprises of a collection of songs more subdued than the last, high-pitched screechy strums transformed into lower toned croons. Semi’s voice takes on a more soulful quality, ringing through the colder evening air. In the beginning, the song is about heartbreak, but the following one become lighter in tone, hopeful and teeming with promise for the future.

Sneakily, Tooru maneuvers behind Sugawara, letting someone else take his spot at the metal fence. Instead, he rests his arms over Sugawara’s shoulders from behind and pulls him close. Sugawara rests his hands on his embracing arms, and places his head back on Tooru’s chest, peering up at him.

“Hey.”

Up above, Semi sings about recklessly falling in love, because he’s young—there’s still time to make mistakes and time to find someone new. He’s got all the time in the world, so he can search for the one. The song is called _Looking for You_. The guitarists and drummers join in on the chorus, a harmony of sonorous echoes that yearn for the unnamed, unknown soulmate out there, who they haven’t met yet. _You_ is anyone, and everyone at the same time.

_Where would I be right now, if not here? Probably back at home, listlessly memorizing the opposing team’s record tapes to psyche myself out._

He should be here.

If Sugawara couldn’t read Tooru’s mind, it would be hard to tell—Sugawara leans even deeper into Tooru’s chest, trusting that Tooru won’t lose his balance.

The man in front of him never complains when Tooru can’t make it for a date because of his overtime practices or never bats an eye when they’re stopped in the street for an autograph for a Sharks fan. Instead, he lets Tooru work hard as he needs to, he smiles at the fans as though to say, _Yes, he is great, and you will become a talented volleyball player too_. More recently, he calls Grandmother Tomoe “sunflower” as well, Tooru had wanted to introduce them at least once.

Sugawara’s along for the ride and brings Tooru on his as well.

They’re young, they’ve made mistakes, they’re going to make even more. They get blackout drunk at each other’s apartments, they playfight in public, and they’re never on time to anything. Though it’s early, maybe too soon to say out loud, Tooru somehow knows that they’ll be up to these immature shenanigans even when they’re wrinkly and beyond the acceptable age for it. He hates thinking about growing old, but he’ll hate less if it’ll be like this.

The song fades out, and the indigo sky hums, a late evening that’s newborn in spirit.

Addressing the crowd, Semi references the time, “What fateful timing. We can do a countdown! If you’re here with a special someone, get ready.”

The band guitarists play a note each time Semi counts down a second, starting from ten. Behind them, a screen showing the count flashes, the numbers glowing redder as it gets closer to zero. The crowd titters, audience turning from the stage to find their friends or loved ones to celebrate the arrival of the new year.

Sugawara turns on his heel, still in Tooru’s arms, but now facing him. Expecting that, Tooru gloats with a smug expression, one that boasts, _Yeah, that’s right—I’m someone’s special someone._

He feels a playful swat on his shoulder, “Get over yourself.”

He won’t. Triumphantly, he proclaims, “Waking up next to me for the new year is the best start.” Sugawara pretends to gag. There’s champagne and an assortment snacks waiting for them at his place, well-stocked for Sugawara’s strange pangs of hunger at night. His boyfriend is spoiled, and it’s all his fault. 

Semi shouts, “FIVE!” not one to be forgotten by his fans.

Sugawara wraps his arms around his waist, then slides his hands into Tooru’s back pockets. Tooru shivers at the contact. Each time still catches him off-guard.

“Don’t fall over this time, ‘kay?”

“Of course not.” Tooru flares up, “Have I ever made the same mistake twice?”

Taking one hand out of Tooru’s pocket to rap on Tooru’s head with his knuckles, Sugawara teases, “No, usually three times.” The reference to a thick skull is one Sugawara has used many times. Sugawara’s hand finds its home in his fluffy hair, one hand on his head and the other in the back pocket of his jeans, guiding Tooru to him.

“You—”

He’s cut off with a kiss—and Semi’s “ZERO! HAPPY NEW YEAAAAR!”—and a boom of confetti that rains all around them. He’s sure it’s a lovely spectacle, but his eyes are intentionally, blissfully shut, savoring Sugawara. Kisses have been aplenty in his new relationship, nevertheless Tooru treasures each one.

 _Happy New Year to me._

✧ ✧ ✧

As he watches Kenma from the lawn chair next to him, Kuroo also lazily tends to their tiny beach fire. The fickle fire crackles in disobedience to Kuroo’s gentle prods to feed it kindling. Upon hearing a hissing fizzle, he decides to place a new log on the flames to keep it going. The hungry hisses die down. That seems to do the trick, the fire wraps around its new feast and spreads out, less sparkly and giving a tender glow.

Since the fire is now friendly, Kenma rolls up his sleeves and holds out his hands, wiggling his digits and letting them get as close to the blaze without burning his fingertips.

He holds out a chopstick, “Want a s’more?” Chopsticks are their functional skewers for the evening. 

“You know I do,” Kenma takes hold of it, then plops his marshmallow on top, jumbo-sized and way too extravagant for any camping trip. Well, they aren’t professional nature-dwellers, it’s fine to cheat if they’re only here for New Year’s Eve. Kuroo’s fine not going on camping trips—he doesn’t know why anyone would sleep on the hard ground when memory foam mattresses are the greatest invention known to mankind. 

They hold their skewers to the fire. Kenma twists his to get an even burn, while Kuroo lets his heat on one side. 

“Do you have any resolutions? It’s not too late to make some.” They still have a few hours or so of the year left. He knows Kenma hasn’t given thought to any. He’d be the last person to make resolution goals that they break after a month.

He actually gives it thought, “Play more games, probably. Get better at those games.” Well, that didn’t really count, but he does mean it. “Do you?”

“Yes, I do have some. Maybe put up a beach volleyball net near the surf shop. Or learn how to cook, so you don’t have to do most of it.” Kenma’s a decent cook, but Kuroo always feels guilty that Kenma usually does it, even though Kenma always shoos him away from the kitchen. _You’re too big and you get in the way_ , he always says. 

“That would be nice. But I don’t mind cooking that much, you know.”

Kenma meets Kuroo’s eyes, and Kuroo has to stop from gasping outright. Kenma’s hair is past his shoulders nowadays, black roots longer, the jagged border between blond and black zigzagging near the middle of where his ears would be, if they were visible. Recently, Kenma has taken to pinning the front strands behind his ears, so that his field of vision is still narrow, but so that his long hair doesn’t get in the way. On weekends, when he’s lucky enough to wake up before Kenma does, Kuroo’s secret pastime is caressing the black roots, pushing them back—the only time he can see Kenma’s entire face. 

“…Kuroo. _Kuroo!”_ A hand clutches Kuroo’s sleeve, dragging it away from the bonfire.

“Huh?!”

“Your marshmallow _is on fire._ ”

Kuroo reflexively brings his skewer back, moving it as far from Kenma as he can. The marshmallow stick is dangerously close to becoming a torch. Startled, Kuroo freezes for a second, waving it back and forth, only causing the flame to grow more. He leaps up, sending his lawn chair flying backwards as he blows heavy breaths onto the incinerated marshmallow. The blue flames closest to the sooty sugary snack, die down with a few of Kuroo’s hurried puffs.

A spire of trailing smoke rises from the burnt shell of the marshmallow. Thankfully the fire had not spread to the chopstick, or else they would have had an odd number of chopsticks. Kuroo places his head behind his head, laughing at his unintentional pyrotechnics. Watching him with a bemused expression, Kenma continues twirling his own skewer, outside perfectly golden brown.

“That could have ended badly.” 

As Kenma watches in horror, Kuroo takes his charred marshmallow and pulls it off with two graham crackers and a slab of chocolate. When he compresses his new s’more sandwich, the chocolate shifts a bit, melted top sliding against the roasted marshmallow. _Beautiful._ Kuroo bites down with an eager crunch.

A mouth full of sticky goodness, Kuroo mumbles out, “Burnt ones taste the best!” Kenma sticks his tongue out, his way of disagreeing, staring at the flecks of black interspersed with the gooey inner white of the marshmallow that Kuroo’s bite leaves behind in his half-eaten s’more. Bringing his marshmallow back from the fire, Kenma gives it a tentative prod to check the softness. The finger sinks in promisingly, so he carefully crafts his own s’more, soon munching with delight at the fruits of his painstaking labor.

Sweet teeth satisfied, Kuroo and Kenma watch the lazy navy-blue waves recede and lunge at the shore. In the late evening, the dark waves can appear menacing, but since the orange light of their bonfire illuminates the night, the waves glint innocuously. Kenma’s feet barely meet the sand from his seat, tips of his Converse brushing the sand as he sucks at his own sticky fingers to get the last bit of sugar from them. His boyfriend sits back in his chair, crossing his arms and resting back into the chair, with a tiny shiver.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s still a little cold, even though there’s a fire.”

For all of Kuroo’s preparations, he had still forgotten something. A blanket would have been nice.

Kuroo unzips his jacket, spreading it open as an invite, “Oh, come here then.”

Kenma protests in a low tone, “I’m not sitting on your _lap._ ” His boyfriend doesn’t like to be treated like a child—in fact, he goes out of his way to be romantic for _Kuroo_ , occasionally setting the table for a candlelit dinner, holding doors open for Kuroo, and pausing his Saturday night couch-potato game sessions to hold Kuroo’s hand when Kuroo asks for it. He’ll take playing one-handed as a challenge for the rest of the night. It makes Kuroo unreasonably happy.

Holding his hands up in facetious surrender, “Don’t worry. I won’t get the wrong idea or anything. You do have a boyfriend, you know.” Innocent ‘til proven guilty, right? 

Full of surprises, Kenma makes his way to Kuroo, soft steps landing on damp sand, “This is just for body heat.” Next thing he knows, he is staring from below up towards Kenma, a sight he is not accustomed to. Kenma kneels and sits on Kuroo’s lap, places his thighs on Kuroo’s own, sitting down. They’re facing each other.

Kuroo has bitten off more than he can chew and gulps because he had expected Kenma to sit facing the ocean.

As if sensing his nervousness, Kenma breaks eye contact, and then draws himself to Kuroo, burying his cheek and nose into Kuroo’s neck. He stops himself from flinching, because Kenma’s nose is _freezing_ —making it all the more noticeable against his burning neck. Perhaps the feverishness that overtakes his chest is helpful in warming Kenma up. Kenma shifts, and Kuroo smiles because he can feel the sticky remnants of marshmallow against his neck, probably a spot Kenma has missed from cleaning up. Remembering that he does indeed, possess arms, he positions them awkwardly to bring his jacket around Kenma, enclosing the both of them in a pocket of contained warmth.

Not wanting to disturb Kenma, but also, desperately wanting to stay like this forever, Kuroo clasps his hands around Kenma and leans his own head on the top of his black roots. Barely there, barely touching, but it’s still too overwhelming for him to consider all at once. 

Kenma asks, “Kuroo?” His voice is crystal clear, unnervingly close to Kuroo’s ear, the way they’re interlocked, cheeks stuck to one another’s. The magnification of Kenma’s normal low tone sounds straight into Kuroo’s head. Soothing, simple, and strong. Just because it’s soft doesn’t mean it can’t be unshakingly powerful.

“Y-Yeah?” Kuroo is disappointed in himself for sounding so nervous.

“I love you. You should know.”

 _Damn it._ The heart is a fragile thing, Kuroo learns. Because it can stop and start without warning. It can thunder one moment and halt the next. Suave exteriors shatter at the mercy of the heart’s bidding.

Swallowing his long-gone pride, a surge of heat from Kuroo’s body, heart pumping and rejuvenating him, Kuroo realizes that once again, Kenma is always the one to fluster him, not the other way around. Perhaps “taking it slow” had worked out more for Kuroo than it had for Kenma.

The tingle of Kuroo’s legs falling asleep goes unnoticed. His faulty heart will do its job and pick up the slack eventually. They’ll stay like this for as long as Kenma wants to. It’s his fate to do so.

✧ ✧ ✧

The rustle of winter jackets and puffy breaths of fog are only temporary signs of suffering, because Bokuto and Akaashi sprint from the car to the front door of their house.

Scout’s at the window, barking his welcome, impatiently bossing them to hurry up and get inside because he’s been neglected at home for a few hours. They’ve left the light on, so his shadow in the window is an ominous and looming figure with the pointiest ears possible.

“Alright, _alright_. We’re trying our best here!”

Bokuto waves and pinches to his fingers like a crab to his furry best friend through the window, making outrageous leaps and hops to say hello, which only excites Scout even more—now he’s yipping and snapping at the air. The cold steel keys on Akaashi’s fingers numb them a little bit, but he finds the right one and unlocks the door to their house.

Scout jumps on Bokuto as soon as the door opens, “HELLO BUDDY!”

The warm blast of heated air from the house sends faint pinpricks into Akaashi’s cheeks, which are being assaulted by the extremes of temperatures. Inside, though, he feels the same as the house—warm and fuzzy.

Bokuto takes off his jacket, shimmying out of his shoes at the same time, “So, how was watching your first official volleyball game?”

“Quite entertaining!” The competitive cheer of the players had fired up all those who watched as well. Daichi and Oikawa, athletes with opposite styles of play and differing roles on the team, both came together to commandeer their patchwork team, holding the new recruits together with _Don’t mind’s_ and encouraging shoulder slaps.

In the stands, Bokuto had taken every effort to detail the complicated plays that Hinata, Oikawa, and Daichi orchestrated, amazed that milliseconds of a play were packed with so much nuance.

“Thank you for explaining everything to me.” 

“I had a feeling you’d be confused if I didn’t!”

“Hinata did well, didn’t he?” The fireball of the Sharks had set a foundation for their close victory. “I don’t need to be an expert to know that.” Anyone who watched would know that Hinata could spring in the air much higher than anyone else, even if they were much taller. Several of his spikes had landed squarely on the opposite court with booming smacks. Sometimes—occasionally, they were stopped by the long, spindly fingers of a surly, bespectacled blocker—and Hinata would bristle whenever that happened. 

“Yes, he sure did.” Bokuto puts his hand over his chest as an overly proud mentor, “He used one of the moves that I taught him. Which technically means that I beat the Frogs as well. It’s my victory, too!” Akaashi is unsure if he should be concerned that Bokuto seems so serious about that statement, then decides it’s not worth pointing out. 

They’re sitting on the couch, Akaashi burrowing into Bokuto’s side to drive out the last bit of cold from his body, since Bokuto is a free furnace ablaze. Which reminds him, Bokuto had been acting more and more bold lately. His latest ruse was undoubtedly bribing the Shimoda Sharks cameraman—with what, Akaashi would never know. 

“Bokuto-san, did you tell someone to put us on the kiss cam?” In the heat of the halftime show, it had been jarring to see him and Bokuto on the big screen they had been watching.

“W-WHAT?! I would nev— …H-HOW did you know?”

“Just a hunch. You know you can ask for one whenever you want.”

“Yeah, but then I’ll ask every second of every day.”

He would indeed, ask every single second of the day. “Ah—I see. That would be a problem.”

Unfazed, Bokuto says, “’Kaashi—I’m gonna shower, okay? I’m beat from all that yelling.” Cashing in one of the unlimited kisses Akaashi has just promised him, Bokuto plants a chaste kiss on Akaashi’s neck before making his way to their bedroom for a hot shower.

He calls after him, “Alright. I’ll make us a pot of tea.” He moves to the kitchen, navigating the house he’s lived in for quite some time, with the addition of a new roommate. The passing of another year always puts him in this reflective mood.

Akaashi Keiji. Minimalist, botanist, and feng shui enthusiast.

Would it be easy to tell, from the inside of his house as of late? Not necessarily. Arguably, no.

On top of his glass coffee table lies a neat stack of magazines, some of the pages falling out because Bokuto has torn them for his “inspiration boards”—one of which stands by the window in the living room. Before Bokuto, at most there would be a spare mug. Now, the glass table is obscured by the magazines, cases of Akaashi’s favorite movies, and a small potted succulent which Bokuto had brought back home from the grocery store yesterday for Akaashi. Scout’s dog bed sits next to the delicate Christmas tree—a precarious situation to be sure, but one Akaashi has allowed for a bit longer—making a deal with Bokuto to leave the tree up until New Year’s Day.

So maybe the house is a tad cluttered by his standards, but all of these _things_ are important, they’re not just taking up space. The common misconception that Akaashi would be overwhelmed living with a boisterous Bokuto is further from the truth.

The patter of the shower water in the bathroom starts, and shortly there is the muffled sound of Bokuto’s shower concerts, making up the lyrics to the catchy commercial they had heard earlier in the afternoon. Akaashi smiles, listening to the improvised slogans he comes up with, then turning to the stove to see if the water’s bubbling yet.

The other inspiration board of Bokuto’s is inside what used to be Kenma’s room, which has now been converted into a study. An entire weekend had been spent repainting the room from Kenma’s black to a pale green, splattered old jeans a testament to the do-it-yourself project they had taken on to make the room all their own.

Riding up against the far wall is a wooden bookshelf, the physical manifestation of Akaashi’s brain, shelves full of his old notebooks, favorite stories, and of course, the Harry Potter series. Carefully arranged picture frames on some of the shelves house photos from his and Bokuto’s latest adventures, the majority of them in the locale of Shimoda, but some in places that they had traveled to for weekend trips—last time to Tokyo, to visit Bokuto’s sisters.

Sitting against opposite walls are two desks, one white and one black.

Perched upon the white desk is Akaashi’s laptop, neighbored by a leather notebook, open to the last page of Akaashi’s half-baked brainstorming. The notebook is one of many like it, in fact, there are quite a few on that bookshelf that he has already filled. It’s been a productive year of writing for him. If one looks closer, they’ll see a business card for a publishing company wedged in the pages of his notebook, a card for someone who Akaashi has a meeting with next Monday to discuss the initial draft of Akaashi’s novel he’s sent in.

Barely a minimalist now, perhaps the greatest change in the home in the past year is Akaashi’s towering stack of drafted ideas, nascent books-to-be. His precious stacks of paper placed on the back of the desk, arranged only in a way that Akaashi understands. The messiest, most unkempt that Akaashi will be with himself is when he writes without abandon. Recently, the way Akaashi experiences everything is more compelling, and so he’s ready to embark on his next novel, at long last ready to tackle the world of fantasy, life magical enough to feel that he can write some of his own as well. 

Across the way is another workstation for someone similarly pursuing their dreams. Following them a lot more haphazardly and with a lot of happy-go-lucky instincts, and most of all, with a lot of love for life. Bokuto’s monitor that he uses for editing is surrounded by a bunch of trinkets, souvenirs he’s picked up from who-knows-where, and a ludicrous number of sticky notes with Sharpie scribbles with arrows pointing this way and that on papers he’s printed out, fodder for his next videos. There are also some books fanned out on his desk, corresponding to the gaps in Akaashi’s bookshelf, ones that Bokuto steals occasionally to see what Akaashi’s favorites are like. The most commanding presence at Bokuto’s desk, other than when Bokuto is sitting there himself, is Owl-san, seated contentedly on Bokuto’s chair.

Akaashi Keiji. Devourer of the written word, starstruck lover for the world’s blessings, and creative architect giving shape and form to ideas borne from his mind. 

Steam rises from the thick mugs as the scalding water hits the tea bags in the two mugs Akaashi has placed on the counter. For good measure, he adds two heaping spoonfuls of sugar to Bokuto’s and one for himself. Letting the warm air shroud his face, Akaashi breathes the smell of the tea in, and starts walking around the living room, giving his legs something to do.

It’s already the first weekend of January, so he should start taking down the tree, not wanting to get up early in the morning to do it. Bokuto won’t mind all that much, they had already had a very eventful evening. They don’t have too many ornaments, because Bokuto wants each ornament to be something different, so they’ll build up to a full tree with eclectic ornaments on every branch… in a few decades… or so. 

To start it off, Bokuto’s first Christmas present to Akaashi had been an ornament, a penguin wearing a Santa hat. He must have embraced his lookalike. At the volleyball game, Akaashi had snuck out during a bathroom break to buy Bokuto a foam volleyball ornament, which he sticks in the ornament box, a pleasant surprise for Bokuto next year when he’ll set up the tree. It’s indestructible, so perfect because Scout won’t be able to choke on it. Humming along with whatever song Bokuto is singing, Akaashi places the penguin ornament, a snowflake, and a few others into a cardboard box.

Now that the tree is naked, Akaashi looks for other easy decorations to put away. He lands on his favorite one of all, and he _knows_ that he doesn’t like having favorites—but this is definitely Akaashi’s favorite gift from Bokuto: a snowglobe.

It’s not just any snowglobe. Submerged in the clear water is a small, unassuming house—one that uncannily looks like their own, which is definitely the reason Bokuto had gotten it for them. Giving it a shake, Akaashi marvels at the flurry of shiny faux snow and soft cotton fibers in the water tornado around the house in a small blizzard. A mere collection of water and fake snow is unexpectedly entertaining to watch.

A voice beside him. “You like the snowglobe that much?” Shaking his head, water droplets fly and a shirtless Bokuto grabs at the ends of his wet hair with a large towel. Akaashi wipes at his glasses with his sleeve to dry them off and nods.

“Yes, I really do.”

A prideful grin of triumphant ‘ _I give the best gifts, huh?’_ lights up Bokuto’s face. Akaashi hands Bokuto his mug of tea, which Bokuto gingerly sips at, because he’s afraid of burning his tongue. 

Nodding at the snowglobe, “Keep it out.” Bokuto notices that the tree is undecorated and shrugs, ready to help Akaashi clean up the rest of it. “We’ll put everything else away except for the snowglobe.”

How had Bokuto known? Well, he hadn’t, somehow still able to give Akaashi everything he dreams of, and more. Wiping the glass with his sleeve to give it an extra gleam, he sets down the beloved globe. 

The Winter Wonderland Akaashi had always wished for, in a place where it barely snows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it feels really strange to have written the last chapter. To be honest, I felt a lot of pressure to get it done quickly - but then I remembered that I started this for fun and there's no point if it's not fun. So I just had fun with it by writing when I felt good and was enjoying myself - similarly, I hope you had a lot of fun reading it! :') 
> 
> Fun fact: Bokuto and Akaashi's aquarium and firework dates I religiously wrote while listening to "Flare" by LUCY and "Highlight" by SVT - if you know these songs, I think you'll see why. 
> 
> Fun fact #2: Kuroo's nickname for Kenma is literally just "baby" but Kenma gave Bokuto his Look of Instant Death^TM, so Bokuto chose life and was smart to edit that out. 
> 
> Fun fact #3: I didn't mean for this to become a Hallmark Christmas special, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity for a Christmas YouTube special & NYE kisses, so here we are.


End file.
